


Invicta

by Kendrene



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Gore, Crixus!Lexa, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, G!p Lexa, I swear the ride will be bloody but there is a happy ending and no the major death isn't Lexa, I will let you guess who plays who for the rest of them for now, Injury, Major Character Injury, Orgy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Slow Burn, Spartacus!Clarke, Torture, or Clarke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7160414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The shadow of the Mountain is vast, and you will yet die under it" </p><p>Clarke cracks an eye open, blood gumming it shut for a moment before she blinks the dried scab away. The Emperor's son sneers down at her and empties a bag of heavy coins over her chained body. </p><p>"Here is how much your refusal to die cost me. Let's see if you can pay the debt and earn your freedom, sky girl."</p><p>She drifts off into slumber, shutting his growls out. </p><p>She will kill them all.</p><p>OR</p><p>The 100 and Spartacus collided in my head and this came out</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood Will Have Blood

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw @zhe-end art on tumblr I just knew I had to.
> 
> As always kudos and comments are appreciated and if you spot any mistakes please let me know. 
> 
> The plot is inspired by the Spartacus tv series, but will not follow it completely. I am changing events to fit the 100 universe. This is not Ancient Rome, but in plenty of sci-fi dystopias the future actually is a distorted reflectin of the past.
> 
> Hope you will enjoy.

 

 

_“Ave Caesar, morituri te salutant”_

Gladiators’ salute upon entering the Arena

 

She waits as always at the bottom of the stairs, steps smoothed to a dull sheen in the half light by countless feet before hers. Above the crowd boos then roars in approval, following the ebb and flow of battle. They chant the names of their favorites and stomp their feet, and she feels the earth tremble with their moods underneath her bare feet.

Lexa swings the net she holds in her right hand lazily, watching as the ropes drag, drawing haphazard lines in the sawdust spread on the floor. Her left hand tightens on the trident’s haft in anticipation. She hates this, yet loves it, the challenge, the bleating adoration of masses she considers beneath her even as she is held in chains by their leaders. The time she is let out in the Arena is the only time she truly feels alive.

The crowd falls silent suddenly, and in the quiet the moans of the dying become audible. The duel is over and the grates at the top of the stairs lift with a rusted groan. The brightness beyond beckons, almost unbearable. A voice, a familiar bellow she heard many times before drifts down to her and she lifts her weapons and ascends.

“People of Polis!” The announcer calls, “today our patrons bless you with their finest warrior! Behold, Alexandra, _Heda Invicta_!”

She sneers at the mockery of a title that stopped having meaning when her forefathers were made slaves, but runs up the stairs nonetheless. Towards the light, and the spilling of blood, everything they have lost forgotten in the lust of battle, if only for a little while.

The people roaring her name as a prayer, wipe away her sorrow.

* * *

 

 

Clarke runs, ragged breath echoing in her ears, chest burning and heaving with nausea. She wants to stop, to rest, her aching legs more and more wooden with each step, but knows that she cannot. She knows the hunters are hot on her trail, she hears them braying like wild dogs and crashing through the underbrush. They do not seem to care about making noise, as if deeming her unworthy of stealth. She stumbles on upturned rocks and almost falls flat on her face, whirling her arms crazily to maintain her balance. They probably are right, she thinks with bitter resignation. Still she runs, the last embers of defiance burning brightly in her heart, refusing to give in to despair and be collared like an animal.

They came for her people soon after the Ark crashed down to Earth, after all the stations were laid low by one woman’s thirst for power.

Only a few scouting parties had disappeared in the beginning, casualties to be expected, or so Marcus Kane, who had been elected Chancellor after Jaha was declared lost in the landing, had reassured. They didn't know the land, or which beasts roamed it, so it was natural that they would lose a few men. Sad, but inevitable.

Except it had not been wild animals preying on them, but men, lost brethren who had effectively picked them off, until they felt so cornered Kane and the other Councilors had ruled that nobody was to roam further than a few yards out of the makeshift wall they had built around their fledgling colony.

Afterwards, when the sleeping gas had been used, Clarke had realized they had been herded just where these people wanted them to be. She and a few others, who were outside the wall to gather the little food they could find, had been spared, but now they were hunted like deer and the well of her strength was running dry.

She chances a glance behind and her chest clenches in panic. Octavia is gone, and she is utterly alone with her pursuers. She hopes the other girl has peeled away and escaped, but deep in her heart she knows it for a lie her mind conjures to reassure her. If she can imagine O made it out unscathed, she can too.

There is a loud _snap_ and something unyielding clamps around her ankle. Bile rises up her throat as she is lifted, almost blacking out in the rush, and hung head-down by her leg, swaying wildly, the world a reversed madness as her vision clears.

They come into view, dressed in short tunics of drab olive and brown, patterned like military camo, chests protected by a carapace of dark armor, faces half concealed behind open helms.

“This one was good sport,” one of them laughs, giving her a push to make her sway faster. Clarke spits angrily in his direction, but he just laughs harder, then steps forward and cuts her loose, letting her tumble to the ground. Before she can try to stand, he places a booted foot on her chest, the nail-reinforced sole grinding into her flesh. He pins her down, his amused smirk turning into a sneer.

“What should we do with her, sir? Harvest? Breeding grounds?” he grabs at his crotch with hunger in his eyes, “she is a pretty one.”

Another figure shoulders his way through their ranks, a taller man, his helmet adorned with a scarlet crest of horse’s hair that cascades behind his back, the armor he wears richly adorned. He motions for his underling to step back, as he unfastens the headgear, baring his head. His hair is cropped so short it is but a dark shadow, his jaw square cut and the lines on the sides of his mouth speak of a man that mostly roars in anger rather than smile.  

He extends his hand, and one of the other men promptly hands him a spear that appears to be made entirely of metal. His arm jabs down and the weapon is a silvery blur, the flat of its leaf-shaped tip hitting Clarke’s side painfully, a jolt of electricity making her limbs spasm. Gritting her teeth, she reaches for the weapon’s haft without thought, heaving to push it away and, as more of her body comes into contact with the metal, the pain increases to white-hot fire.  She gasps as the air around her is filled with blue sparks, and the smell of ozone burns her nostrils.

“This one has some fire left,” he muses slowly, after ripping the spear away and leaving her a trembling mess, “she can amuse the crowds and if she survives she will fetch good coin in a _Ludus_. The Emperor is most pleased when entertained.”

“Yes _Legatus_.”

Clarke is grabbed by her collar and brutally lifted to her feet, then the soldier snaps a tight fitting metal collar around her neck. Her hands are bound next, with coarse rope that immediately chafes at her wrists, and when she tries to resist, he backhands her casually, splitting her lip.

Eyes narrowed to slits, she licks the blood off the cut carefully, probing it with her tongue. It stings, but he could have done worse. The man’s look of amusement is back, and he tugs her forward by a chain that connects to a ring on the front of the collar. She doesn't loiter to find out what he would do if she tried to defy him again, and as she starts walking along, she detects a passing look of disappointment in his cruel eyes.

The hunting party closes around her, and Clarke furtively glances about, afraid she will spot Octavia, chained as she is among these brutes, but the girl is nowhere to be seen and her spirits lift a little at the thought she may have indeed escaped such fate.

Soon enough the walk becomes a trudge, as muscles pushed to the limit by flight, desert her. When cramps settle, blinding agony wraps around her thighs, and her legs seize up, refusing to move. She falls on her knees with a grunt, and then is propelled onto her back by a savage kick to her ribs.

She retches, a spurt of burning vomit filling her throat, choking the air out of her as she struggles to one side and gags, body instinctively curling into a shivering ball, mind already expecting another beating.

The blows come, but there is a studious precision to them now, as if her captor has ceased being angry and is imparting her a lesson in obedience.

The last sensation before she blacks out, is regret- she should have fought harder and made them kill her.

 

* * *

 

“Clarke, Clarke please wake up,” the voice is a begging whisper that pierces the chaos of a dream in which an unknown man is kicking her to the ground, and she groggily opens her eyes, details resolving slowly above her.  

Wherever she is, it is dark, encroaching shadows almost tarry as night, and she is laying on a hard, stone floor sweating with the humid tears of an underground cellar.

“Uhh,” she moves, and regrets it instantly, her body a pulsing knot of pain. An arm is snuck behind her back, and she is helped to a sitting position as gently as possible. Concerned faces resolve around her, faces she knows, but relief is short lived as she takes in the gloomy mood.

“Did you fight back?” Octavia’s fingers slowly trace a swelling bruise under her left eye and she does her best not to flinch away.

Raven, whose arm is holding her upright, tightens her hold slightly, trying to give her some comfort.

“I think…” Clarke falters, struggling to remember events marred by adrenaline and pain, “they collared me and…I fell...” She shrugs with a wince, falling silent. It is obvious to them all what happened.

“He fought too, when they brought you in,” Bellamy nods towards a shape curled a few paces away and her heart sinks as her eyes take in the sight of Wells bloodied features, “he flung himself at them trying to get to you.”

She struggles to her knees and moves to him, the others following her with resigned eyes.

She places shaking fingers to his throat, searching for a pulse and finds an unsteady thrum. His breath is labored and it catches at the back of his throat in a way she does not like. A deep cut on his temple leaks dark blood onto his face, and she dabs at it softly with the edge of a sleeve, but there is not enough light to determine how bad it is. When she presses the area around it carefully, she is met with no resistance where bone should be, and something moves sickeningly beneath her probing.

“We tried to wake him,” Bellamy puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently as if preparing her for his next words, “but nothing worked. Figured it would be better not to move him.”

Clarke nods weakly, biting her lower lip as tears of frustration threaten to spill down her cheeks. She meets the siblings’ eyes and realizes they are waiting for her to say something. Something medical she assumes. The truth of the situation is apparent to her trained mind, but she is loathe to admit it to them and cast their mood even more downwards.

Fighting back the knot forming at her throat, she squeezes his hand briefly, standing with a groan, arm reaching out to the nearby wall to hold herself upright.

“It was the right thing to do,” her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she looks around. The cell is small, to the point it feels almost cramped with the five of them stuffed inside it, and there are no windows by which to discern where they have been brought, or more simply the time of day.

The only light comes from a barred rectangle cut in the sturdy door standing between them and escape, but it waxes and wanes too much to be that of daylight.  

She walks to the door anyway and puts her face to the bars. She sees the flicker of a torch at the corner of her eye and a soft, chilly breeze caresses her bruised cheek. A sound, like the roar of distant waters breaking on land rides on it, a chant, but it is too far to be discernible.

Abruptly it stops, and marching footsteps echo down the hall, masked until that point by the other noise.

Clarke draws back abruptly and away from the door, rejoining the others, putting herself between the approaching threat and Wells’ sprawled body

Soon enough a man, garbed like the ones that captured her peers inside, before a key is rattled into the lock and the door slammed open, to crash against the wall.

Two soldiers pile inside reducing the space from small to suffocating, spears extended to keep the prisoners back, the tips humming with electric currents so strong to set Clarke’s head throbbing. They flicker with bluish energy that casts a livid glow upon them all.

“You three,” one of them barks, pointing his weapon to each girl in turn.“Out.”

Clarke does not move, reluctant to leave Wells’ side and the man jabs his spear closer, not quite touching, but threatening.

“Please,” she lowers her gaze and assumes what she hopes to be a pose of meekness, “he is badly hurt. He needs a medic.”

The soldier shoulders past her roughly, looking down at the unconscious youth, then lifts his gaze to hers pensively, before glancing to his companions.

“He does look bad.”

What Clarke judges to be an officer, the same that unlocked the door sighs in irritation.

“Careless cunts, whoever brought him in. Help him out.”

Words of thanks turn to dust on her tongue as the spear jab down once, tip piercing the side of Wells neck. The soldier leans his weight into the thrust as she flings herself forward with a scream and the sharp metal sinks in until the spear hits the stone underneath with a screech.

Arterial blood spurts into the air for a moment, a hot drizzle that hisses when it rains along the spear’s electrified shaft. The bleeding stops almost immediately, the wound cauterized, and the smell of burnt tissue fills the narrow space.

Clarke is yanked back and outside by the second guard. She kicks out savagely as the first man brandishes the gore-coated lance at Bellamy’s throat, forcing him against the far wall. The blood is already dry and flecks fall like gruesome snow on the uneven stones.

A hand closes on Clarke’s mouth to muffle her cries and she bites down hard, tearing at skin, her teeth sinking in the meat of a finger to the bone.

Drops of ruby gather at the corners of her lips and paint lines down her chin and the hand is removed with a coarse oath.

Her gaoler spins her around, fist raised to deliver a crushing blow to her face, but is stopped by a barked order.

“Bring them upstairs and be done with it. The beasts will have their fill today.” Clarke’s eyes narrow in hate as the officer disposes of them so casually, but she lets herself be dragged away after the other girls.

 _I will kill you all_.

For Wells. For all the Arkers, whose fate is uncertain.

She tries to not dwell on the impossibility of her promise.

* * *

 

Lexa twirls the weighted net expertly, drawing enticing patterns in the air. Today she is posing as a _retiaria_ which suits her well. She favors the quickness light armor affords, and hates to fight helmeted, the cramped confines of the heavy gear limiting vision and breathing too much for her liking.

Her right arm is encased in a _manica_ of dulled steel and leather, the shoulder-guard styled like a fish’s fin, its tips coated in gilt that catches the sun whenever she moves. More boiled hide covers the right side of her chest.

Besides that she only wears a loincloth, her left breast left bare, skin glistening with the sweat of the noon’s heat and scented oils.

Her opponent is a broad shouldered desert man, a _secutor_ armored much more heavily, bearing a _gladius_ and a square shield, depicting a sand-snake. They circle each other warily, slashing at the air with their weapons, demonstrating prowess. She knows him by reputation, Flamma he is called, and he has won plenty of laurels and favor with the crowds.

Yet they are fighting in the capital and here she is the idol of blood and sand to which the common man sacrifices his bloodlust to.

His attack would be sudden to an untrained eye, but she has noticed the shifting of his weight on the front leg, the hefting of his shield right before the charge.

He slashes at her face and she nimbly backs a step, the blade swishing in front of her eyes, its wind making a lock of her hair flutter. The crowd _ooohhs_ and gasps as the return blow draws even closer, but she dances around the slower man and out of his thrusts’ reach.

He comes at her again, impatient, his ragged breaths echoing like a bull’s inside his _galea,_ and the net whirls again, catching the corner of his shield. He grunts and swears at her, realizing she is toying with him, and angrily slashes at the ropes, seeking to sever them entirely and only managing to tangle his sword in the mess instead.

Lexa’s eyes narrow as he swallows her bait whole and she forcefully pulls the net to her, ripping his weapon away. The sword tumbles away into the sand, among the mocking hollers of the crowd.

Lexa flicks her trident towards it, inviting him to go and gather it. She wants a fair fight, not a farce. He runs for it, as she raises her arms to the stands and the crowd chants her name in response, making the whole structure tremble.

Flamma hefts his _gladius_ , and raps the hilt against the scutum’s edge in respectful salute. She nods and they square off again, and she seizes the initiative. The net leaves her fist and again Lexa’s target is the man’s shield. The ropes and small weights tangle around the reinforced wood and Flamma shakes his arm, before giving up on the protection and undoing the strings securing the shield to his forearm.

Thus freed he acquires speed, and Lexa shifts to a two handed grip, brandishing the trident like a quarterstaff, parrying his furious blows with the ironshod haft. Fiery sparks ignite the battlefield as they trade blows. Lexa’s weapon grants her reach without exertion, while Flamma overextends again and again in an effort to draw the first blood.

She allows him, stepping into a low cut that scores her thigh lightly and then the fight is over in a blur, as the trident’s butt catches the back of his heel, tripping him onto his back as he backs away, sprawling in the dirt only to find the wicked tips of her weapon prickling his throat.

The crowd roars in approval and Lexa raises her eyes for the first time towards the _pulvinus_ , meeting the Emperor’s gaze.

The man stands, raising his hands for silence and the crowd’s yowls quieten to a murmur.

“Flamma fought well,” the prone warrior raises two fingers in a sign of surrender, “let hi-”

“ _Kill him_!” a voice brays, cutting the Emperor’s off. His son jumps up from the pillows he had been lounging on and comes forward, throwing a half full cup to the ground in anger.

“End the snake fucker!”

The mood in the Arena shifts in a heartbeat and other calls for blood soon follow, until the tide threatens to drown them all.

Lexa awaits the decision, poised to strike, but immobile, a statue of perfect violence ready to be unleashed. She sees the wariness eating at the older man, as his son basks in the crowd’s curdling howls adding his own voice.

The Emperor’s hand rises slowly, he makes a fist and inexorably motions downward with his thumb.

“Make it quick.” Flamma’s dark eyes hold no reproach and Lexa knows if the positions were reversed neither would hers.

“May we meet again.” She draws back then forwards and he dies with a gurgle and a slowly spreading pool of piss, immediately absorbed by the voracious sand.

Lexa steps back and bows deeply towards the masters, before turning and marching away. Her blood boils down and the momentary elation is gone as fast as morning fog.

As she walks towards the doors leading to the gladiator’s quarters in the Arena a flash of movement attracts her attention. A group of slaves is being herded towards one of the holding cells that faces the sides of the circular field and as she slows to look, eyes blue as the clear waters one only finds in hidden forest ponds meet hers.

Her heart jumps, still strained by the fight and she feels a shadow of pity settle over her. The girl will be dead before the sun sets.

* * *

 

The soldiers push them along endless corridors, the three girls dazed into silence by Wells’ callous death. Clarke clenches her jaw hard, willing the tears she feels rising inside her not to fall. Her teeth grind together audibly. She will not give these monster the satisfaction.

As they step into a broader hallway, flanked by barred windows on one side, the roaring and chanting which had accompanied their ascent grows to a deafening crescendo and she looks outside at a spectacle of savage beauty, in time to see a lithe woman trip a much bigger man to the ground, hovering over him for the final strike in the same way the soldier had loomed over Wells. Her feet drag and she stops despite herself, and the guards allow the small group to witness the show and the swift execution.

When the surviving warrior turns, eyes of the most startling green gather the sweltering sun like emerald orbs and Clarke’s breath hitches.

“Don’t worry,” a soldier snickers pushing her into motion again, “you won’t be facing _her._ ”

As laborers drag the corpse away, leaving a trail of vital fluids that glistens briefly, the group is hastened into a chamber, where one of the walls is missing, and the space filled by an iron gate.

The guards shut the door they came through behind them and the girls are left alone and unbound. The floor is caked with dirt and what looks suspisciously like dried blood and in a corner Clarke spots a heap of rusted weapons.

She approaches it rapidly, not knowing what they will face, but that danger is close and sifts through the collection. It is a sorry one at that, not even worth the name, but she picks out a short sword that looks in good enough condition. The edge is mostly blunted, but at least it does not look like it will fall apart at a mere touch.

The others follow her lead and as they straighten, the gate is lifted by an unseen mechanism. The packed stands fall utterly silent and a single drum starts beating in the distance, deep and steady as a giant heart.

Then a bestial roar speeds towards them as if summoned and Clarke’s eyes widen until the white shows completely. Death stares back, and it’s the most beautiful, most terrifying thing she has ever seen.


	2. The Jaws Of Janus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still shaken by Wells' death, Clarke, Octavia and Raven are thrown in the Arena as sacrifices to entertain the Emperor himself.
> 
> Will they survive the ordeal? And what future can they look to, if not one of slavery?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual kudos and comments are much appreciated, I hope you will enjoy this second chapter. It is only going to get darker from here. As usual if you find any mistakes do not hesitate to let me know and I shall fix them!
> 
> Come plot an uprising with me on Tumblr @kendrene

 

_ “Well, I am going to exercise my prerogative of roaring  _

_ and show you how fares nobility. Watch me.” _

 

Jack London -  _ The Sea Wolf _

 

Its huge paws burrow into the sand, claws leaving deep grooves as it paces back and forth in the confined space. It grows impatient, the wide circle of dirt outside calling it. Suddenly it pounces forward, powerful shoulder colliding with the closing grate, muzzle pressed between the iron bars, fangs as long as a man’s hand snapping around a metal rod. It shakes its head side to side and the gate rattles, flakes of mortar and rust showering its candid mane. One of the two-legs outside yelps softly, clutching at its metal claw, and the beast growls. It knows the sting of the shiny fang well and has learned to be wary of it. The smell of blood in the air grows thicker, and its eyes are moved to the fluid soaking the earth in the middle of the open space. It aches to lap at the rich liquid, to crack the prone two-legs open with a swipe and bury itself into the carcass’ middle, where the choice parts, rich in fat and nutrients are ensconced. 

Flies buzz around it and it flicks its tail like a whip, keeping the bothersome things at bay, as the animal’s pacing becomes feverish. 

Finally the two-legs on either side of its gate free it, hurriedly turning tail to safety. It crouches in the deep shadows gathering in its pen for a moment, studying the things entering what is now its domain. There are three, these also clutching their iron teeth, but it knows they are blunted and aged. It has played this game many a time.

Still the wariness lingers, a lesson bitterly engraved into its hide, to never take a two-legs for feeble. They are a treacherous kind, not of instinct like it is, but shrouded in trickery. 

The hunger has the best of it and it leaps under the sun, its two heads thrown to the heavens, jaws wide open, roaring in challenge. It charges not in hatred, but necessity, having been taught to please its master by whip and spear. Only then will it be fed, and its ears twitch in anticipation of its trainer’s praise, its back tingles in memory of hands carding the candid fur. It craves those acts of kindness like food.

* * *

 

 

“Three sacrifices!” 

The  _ princeps _ tone is delighted, as he claps his hands in childish anticipation, “let us pray  _ Legatus  _ that the skies see fit to open up at blood provided in such magnitude.” He sighs, tormenting the clasps of his ceremonial cuirass with fidgeting hands, “this heat is unbearable.”

Emerson fights to conceal a pleased smile and nods graciously. It would not do to show himself too satisfied in front of his betters, but he hopes the careful homage will be branded clearly on the  _ princeps _ mind, to be eventually rewarded with elevation. To the Senate perhaps. 

A collective gasp from the onlookers draws his attention back to the Arena, just as the lion emerges from the pit’s bowels. It is a thing of feral beauty, Emerson muses, all powerful muscles and savage claws, its snow-white pelt gleaming like bleached bone under the noon sun. His eyes flick to the girls that stand stock still, rooted to the sand by terror. They should be honored to be slaughtered by such a majestic being, their death far removed from common. Few men can claim the same fate.

The beast advances, ponderously wary, the scars marring the perfection of its back a memento to the day the beast-king had almost fallen. Suddenly the fair-haired girl, bolts to a side, yelling and waving the crumbling poker she chose for weapon. The _legatus_ cannot decide whether it is courage or stupidity, or just an attempt to prolong her companions’ miserable life if by mere moments. He remembers her rebelliousness upon capture after all, so he is not surprised to see some fire still lingers inside her. No matter. The lion’s teeth will soon crash that out of her and spirits willing the rains will come.

The animal does not take the bait, picking another target instead, the olive skinned girl with the red jacket who holds the short sword she selected in front of her like one would a shield. The blade trembles visibly in her grasp, sun rays catching the pitted metal this way and the other as it wavers in the air. The lion lunges, almost playfully, one paw swatting at the flat of the blade, not hard enough to make her lose it, but to stagger her, two pair of cobalt eyes gauging the reaction. The girl yells and scuttles back, but not fast enough: a twitch of the other paw rips the sword from her clutch and the weapon bounces and whirls across the sand, coming to a stop almost under the Emperor’s box.

“Raven!” the other dark haired woman, yanks the weaponless one away by a flailing arm and they tumble backwards, rolling to the ground and onto each other as the lion’s claws rake the air they occupied moments before. 

The  _ princeps _ snorts, but contempt is cut short, when the blonde charges with a scream, blunted  _ gladius _ raised so that she will be able to thrust with the point, the only part of the blade still sharp enough. The lion twists, tail parting the air like a flail, but by a stroke of luck she scores a puncture against its ribs, drops of magenta coloring the white fur, and then throws herself to the side, sword still held in a death grip. The animal swipes at her and its claws strike cloth with a noise like torn parchment, cutting through her jacket and shirt and scoring the skin underneath. In the distance it looks to Emerson like her blood is the same shade as the lion’s. 

The wild cat roars again, enraged by the cut to its side, and crouches low, heads swiveling, regarding the girls in turn. 

“This will be over far too soon,” boredom settles over the  _ princeps’  _ sweaty face and some of the wine sloshes to the terrace’s floor as he makes disgusted motions with his cup. 

Emerson clenches his jaw. Blast the man and his moods!

“A wager perhaps, lord?” he offers affably, none of his disgruntlement showing on his features. He gestures at the scene playing out below them, “to enliven the…. _ proceedings _ .”

“Splendid idea!” the  _ princeps  _ leans forward, again the very picture of excitement, “what about…” he halts, making a show of thinking deeply, “which one of them dies last?” After all it is obvious that they are outmatched.” He laughs shrilly at his own wit.

The  _ Legatus  _ bows in approval and spares a glance for the Arena. The slaves are still alive, the lion circling, waiting for them to be unnerved by its presence and show weakness. 

“There are three,” Emerson nods towards his Emperor, “perhaps  _ Caesar _ , you would favor to take part?”

“I would not,” the tone is so cold, Emerson is gripped by the sudden certainty of having overstepped. The man’s eyes hold his for a moment, then his voice softens and he deflects, “I would choose my champion quickly. The beast seems ready to attack again.”

“True!” his son echoes, “look how low it crouches, how it quivers! The dark-haired one that is still armed then! I place my coin on her.”

“The blonde,” Emerson grunts, leaning his chin against a fist. She has sized initiative among the three, but she is wounded. He has no wish to win the game he suggested. He aims to entertain, not humble. The purse the  _ princeps  _ mentions is quite sizeable, and fresh sweat moistens his brow, yet he will cover the small fortune gladly when he loses, for it will bring him bigger ones, he is sure of it.

Conversation dies away as the lion finally springs into action again. The girls have spread out smartly, the blonde having regained her feet as they set terms, but the beast’s mighty paws seem to be everywhere. It is a whirlwind of motion, claws tearing again and again, as the crowd yells with each swipe. They all miss the mark, and yet Emerson can see from his position, how the lion is herding the slaves with cunning, separating the unarmed one from the other two. 

They all seem to come to the same conclusion at once, but it is already too late. The lion soars, even as the girl moves backwards, eyes widened in panic, it rushes her, kicking up a cloud of sand that hazes vision, turning the players of this tragedy into indistinct shadows for a moment. 

There is a piercing scream and when the dust settles, one of the lion’s mouths is smeared with crimson. The girl lays sprawled on the ground, unmoving and the crowd cheers wildly as the animal moves away, its attention already on the other two.

“ _ NO! _ Raven,  _ no! _ ” the blonde’s scream is drowned by the princeps’ delighted laughter. 

Emerson smiles in turn.

One down, two to go.

* * *

 

 

The animal is a silvery blur as it launches itself at Raven, its claws digging grooves into the sand, the grit its run throws up, hanging in the air as if frozen. Time seems to slow around Clarke, her feet marooned to the ground turned to quicksand. Her friend scrambles back, as the beast’s shadow blots out the sun over her, her scream a piercing wail that shatters the illusion of an instant stretched into infinity. The lion’s teeth rip at her leg, tearing into fabric and flesh alike, before snapping shut with finality around her knee. 

The great animal shakes both of its heads, the mane flaring like a banner, the one empty mouth snarling in warning at Octavia, even as the brunette takes one courageous step forward. 

The scream cuts off abruptly, as the monster releases its prey, and Clarke’s eyes are drawn inevitably to the gaping wound. A chunk of meat has been torn away, left hanging by a few strands of gristle, to expose the red and marble of the muscles beneath, and encased between the bands of bloody flesh, she can distinguish the yellow-white flash of tibia and rotula. She cannot know how deep the wound goes, but blackish blood pumps weakly down Raven’s leg and pools beneath her. The limb is twisted at the wrong angle and a sinking feeling gathers at the pit of her stomach. She cannot believe the lion toyed with her friend and then cast her from its primal mind once she no longer posed a threat. Yet, the gruesome spectacle tells her otherwise. 

She tears her eyes away with effort and an aching heart. Clarke can do nothing for Raven, but if they can kill the beast maybe her captors will allow her to tend to the injured mechanic.

Clarke hefts her weapon, limbs made leaden by her friend’s fate, blue eyes meeting blue and shuffles in between the animal and the unconscious girl, careful to leave herself enough space of maneuver. 

“Octavia!” The Blake sibling shakes herself from her daze and swallows hard, mirroring the blonde’s stance. A wariness enters the lion’s gaze and its massive heads lower almost to the ground, sniffing noisily as it resumes its circling.

“We need to lead it away from Raven.” They exchange a quick look, finding resolve into each other, while unspoken plans are birthed where their gazes meet, and Octavia nods. 

“We need bait,” the brunette mutters, eyes never leaving the white shape that prowls their surroundings,” we’ll never take it down headfirst.” 

“You think we can?” Clarke’s heart quickens, the memory of the superficial cut she scored against its side evaporating from her mind with each passing second. 

“We die trying,” Octavia shoots back, a trace of the same defiance that pushed her to explore their new world even when the forest was forbidden by their elders surfacing, heating her cheeks as her eyes harden and she charges with a yell, dragging Clarke behind her. 

Combined, they give each other strength, their assault a zig-zag upon the sand, that makes the lion’s neck strain as it tries to follow both. They split at the last moment as powerful hind legs propel it forward into the space between them. It reaches out with a paw and Octavia is smacked away, her sleeve shredded and the wind knocked out of her as she rolls head over heels on the sand. 

Clarke can spare little more than a worried glance, and her relief turns to burning vinegar in her veins as the beast advances to corner Octavia. She raises her knees higher, running faster, praying the animal won’t turn to face her as she approaches as silently as she can at full speed. She is sure it can hear her heart, beating like a wardrum, threatening to climb up her throat and out of her mouth.

It is a deadly gamble, but choice was taken from them the moment they put a collar around their necks. They can only decide how to die, she thinks bitterly. 

With one last effort she reaches the lion and throws herself at its back, one hand swallowed by white as she grabs a fistful of its mane, sword turned bludgeon flashing darkly in the other.

The fiend rears up and she is lifted off the ground.

* * *

 

 

“Well fought, sister,” they clasp forearms and Anya smiles warmly, “it pleases me to see you still among the living.” she feels the rough scar of their  _ dominus _ ’ brand under her fingers and dips her head slightly to hide a grimace.

It is always a stark reminder, sharp contrast from the stories of glories past shared in hushed whispers when night falls over the gladiator school. She had tried time and time again to avert her mind from such things, excusing herself when some of her companions gathered around an impromptu narrator in the baths. She had clung to the belief weakness lurked behind thoughts of life beyond the  _ ludus.  _ Yet she thinks of Tris and cannot envision an existence of servitude for the young slave she has taken under her protection. She wishes she could mirror Lexa’s stoicism, but affection does not seem much of a weakness now that it warms her at night. 

They turn back towards the Arena and Indra joins them as a new batch of slaves makes its hesitant entrance. Her eyes are instantly drawn to the fair haired one, and she can see even at a distance how the blue of her gaze is darkened to midnight as she contemplates her fate.  In fear or desperation, Anya cannot tell. 

Another detail captures her attention. 

“Their garb…” she trails off unsure and Indra answers, the usual sneer she displays deepened and her tone heavy with disgust, “they belong to these...  _ Skaikru _ , to be executed.” A savage roar underlines her words and Anya whirls around to face her. 

“ _ Damnatio ad bestias _ ? What is their offence?”

Indra shrugs, the scale-mail she is still wearing clinking softly with her indifference, “I hear the  _ Legatus,”  _ her hard eyes rise to the distant stands, and the terrace where the Emperor lounges with his cohorts, “had their people beaten and cornered. These and a few others had the  _ gall _ to escape.” Her scathing sarcasm is cut short as Lexa draws in a sharp breath, moving forward to the lowered grate and grasping the bars in a white-knuckled grip.

“Janus…”  

The wind picks up, swirling about the battlefield and tugging at banners and coats, clouds racing to cover the sun for a moment, so that what emerges from a far pen, much like their own, is a spectral apparition more than living flesh.

Further conversation is drained from their tongues as battle is joined. The beast quickly singles out one girl and weapon and footing are taken from her by monstrous paws. 

“What a farce,” Lexa snarls, muscles clenching so tightly that tendons jump and pulse under taut skin. Her eyes are glued to the lion’s back and as Anya follows her heated gaze she recalls the girl’s own encounter with the beast. It had been cold then, to the point water would freeze inside cups and crack jars if one was not too careful, the sand of the Arena buried under a coverlet of snow. Oh, how the masses had loved the solstice games that year, and the vivid sharpness of spilled blood against the white!

It had lasted longer than any other fight she had ever witnessed, woman and beast so cut up by the end of it, they could barely stand. How bitter it had been for such mighty beings to accept that they could not best each other. Lexa had nursed both wounds and grudge for weeks, and the whole world had seemed to freeze over with her coldness. 

Anya joins her at the gate, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. They exchange a startled look when the blonde girl charges in a stalward attempt to save her fellow slave, and gasp in unison when a line of red marks the animal’s flank. The lion reciprocates in kind and talons rack the girl’s back as she tumbles to the side and back up, hunching slightly against the pain of cuts that drench her back. She wears her blood like a cloak, trying to appear defiant in the face of certain death and Anya feels a sliver of admiration lodge inside her heart. 

“It will pursue,” Lexa growls, but Anya is not sure as the beast can pick between opponents. Lexa projects her pride to the fiend,, for she would punish the offending hand that defiled her flesh swiftly, her perception filtered by her own encounter. 

They observe the cat circle, heads snarling at the girls in turn and the people on the stands grow quiet again. It feels as if the whole building is holding its breath, even the wind dies and only the glare of the uncovered sun hammers down on them all relentlessly.

Just when time is about to dilate indefinitely, Janus springs as a feather lacking weight and closes ground with the unarmed girl. A screen of dust veils what happens after, but when the scene is clear again the lion is draped in gore and the slave unmoving.

Lexa’s hands fall from the grate and she sighs displaying a pity not customary for her, anger drained out of her like the sand beneath them scooped into cupped hands.  

“They have no fight left. What is the purpose of shaming them further?”

As she begins to turn from the carnage, she meets Anya’s disbelieving eyes and whips around in time to see the two remaining Sky people madly charge at the animal, before it can go and finish the prone slave. 

Anya shake her head in wonder and sadness as the dark haired one is swatted away like an annoying fly, The blonde has managed to put herself behind Janus’ back and sprints forth, short-sword held in a reversed grip, point forwards. She moves quietly, without warlike screams, her racing steps covered by the raging brays of people demanding more blood.

As the lion closes in on the slave struggling to push up on shaking knees, the blonde reaches out with her free hand, fingers closing around a lock of the beast’s mane like seizing reins, and she throws herself onto its back.

It rears up, and a macabre dance begins, powerful muscles flexing, back buckling to dislodge the unexpected weight. 

It lasts hours, and yet it’s only moments before the girl is thrown over the lion’s snapping heads, landing on her back in a puff of reddish sand, all air pushed out of her by the impact.

“Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim.”  _ [may we meet again]  _ Anya murmurs too quietly for the others to hear above the howling crowd, as Janus places a powerful paw on the girl’s chest, jaws stretching open, glistening strands of drool spattering on the slave’s face.

In another world perhaps, one in which freedom is  everyone’s birthright.

Anya lowers her head, closing her eyes to the violence outside. This is a death she has no wish to witness. 

For the second time in the day, the onlookers fall silent.

* * *

 

 

As she is thrown over the lion’s shoulders, Clarke’s teeth click down onto her tongue, and the coppery tang of blood fills her mouth. She has lost her grip on the  _ gladius  _ and as the world turns upside down around her, she knows their plan has failed. 

Her back slams into the packed sand, a film of it sticking to her sweaty brow, giving it a red hue soon to be echoed by her blood. She gasps for air and black flecks swirl at the edge of her vision as her head rebounds up violently. 

The lion fills the space above her, heads lowered so close she feels the torrid current of its breath on her cheek, smells the reek of rotten flesh coming from yawning jaws. She thinks she can spot fragments of meat between its yellow fangs. Pieces of her friend, she realizes sickened, and bile piles upwards from her guts. 

A giant paw is placed almost tenderly on her chest, and the beast bears down on her, slowly crushing her ribcage. She feels the bones creaking, starting to bend. The pain turns to blinding whiteness, and with a last surge of stubbornness she throws an arm out, groping for something, anything she can put between herself and the descending jaws.

Her fingers brush abandoned iron, warmed by the touch of the sun and she extends her arm as much as she is able while consciousness starts to flee. 

As her eyes flutter close, her hand closes around the object and her arm spasm upwards. The lion’s breath abruptly falters, and a rumbling starts deep inside its chest. It makes the air above Clarke hum, her arm jerked in time with the rise and fall of the sound. She pushes the iron rod up further, having recognized Raven’s lost weapon, and thick drops of something thicker than saliva rain upon her, drenching her hair. 

The lion spasms, claws digging into her breast, shallow rents that fill with her own vital fluids. She fights against the darkness, managing to lift eyelids as heavy as the gates that trap them in the beast’s company, and her hand falls away from the sword’s hilt. The blade sinks into the lion’s open maw, disappearing between the rows of cruel teeth and down into its throat. Red-black blood spurts forth with each breath, the uninjured head shaking madly with suffering, pupils dilated despite the bleaching sunlight, eyes rolling wildly into sockets. There is a cough, coming deep from inside the barrel-like chest, and the lion falters backwards, weight lifted off Clarke. She scrambles away on her back as best she can, before strong hands grab under her armpits and pull her backwards, Octavia’s determined frown appearing for a moment. She is helped to her feet, and they both watch warily as the lion walks around itself unsteadily, legs dragging, tinging the sand with red. 

“Is it done?” she spits, the desert of her throat making it difficult to utter words, her tone incredulous. Her eyes strain against the glare, frantically searching for Raven and she takes a step forward as they lock onto the red-jacketed girl.

Octavia’s hold on her forearm stops her in her tracks and the Blake girl motions towards the lion with the cudgel she is still clutching.  

“We can’t help Raven while it can still attack,” Clarke knows she is right, even as she watches Raven’s life trickle away on the ground. Her own sword glints weakly in the middle of the Arena, and as they advance on the lion side by side, she bends over and picks it up with a pained grimace, her cuts pulling open with the effort. 

They move on either side of the beast and nod to each other as in unison they raise the blades like hammers, bringing them down on the beast’s heads with a thud. 

Clarke feels fury sweep the pain of her wounds away, swapping it for that of loss. She screams in anger as the  _ gladius _ descends again and again, and Octavia echoes her wrath, bones splitting open under their blows, a nimbus of blood and brain matter splashing upwards, soaking them both. Clarke keeps pumping her arms until they burn, until her shoulders lose all feeling and her wrists lock with the effort. Still she works the weapon without pause, until the proud head of the lion is nothing but gruesome paste at her feet. 

Then, when strength deserts her, she raises her face to the unforgiving sky above and howls.

* * *

“Impossible,” Emerson slowly lowers the cup from which he had been drinking. The  _ princeps _ has sprung to his feet, rushing to the terrace’s balustrade and looking down, eyes wild with disbelief. Only the Emperor sits unmoved, back ramrod-straight, hands resting on  the sides of his gilded chair. The  _ legatus _ has the clear impression a brief smile crawls along his severe mouth, but it is gone before he can be sure.

“It seems you win our bet,  _ Legatus, _ ” the son is back and drops a jingling bag in Emerson’s lap with a venomous sneer. The soldier stands slowly, hands holding the heavy purse, offering it back with a bow.

“Lord,” he wishes his voice did not sound so strained, “the slaves still live. Surely the bet is void?”

“She landed the killing blow,” the  _ princeps _ throws a furious look in the blonde’s direction. She is still standing, head tilted back and her shrieks seems to have no end and chill the blood. 

Before Emerson can try to sway him to his reasoning the man storms off, pride dangerously wounded. He casts a dark look of his own towards the girl, now regretting to have deemed the three worthy of an offering. 

“She has the crowd,” the Emperor’s voice jolts him out of thoughts of revenge and he lends an ear to his surroundings, noticing for the first time how the people on the stands are clapping and pointing in excitement. A chant begins among them, and soon builds up to a wall of noise.

“Live!” They scream, “live!”   

The Emperor raises a questioning eyebrow. 

“They were supposed to be a sacrifice, to entreat the spirits so that it may rain,” Emerson grates, “besides she causes grievance between me and your son!”

“Because she survives?” A light of satisfaction is now unmistakable brightening the old man’s gaze, “I believe both the Gods and the masses have made their will well known. To defy it…” he pauses dramatically, “could prove disastrous.”

“I have a proposition, if  _ Augustus _ will entertain,” a third voice breaks in respectfully. Its bearer stands behind the throne and bows as they regard him.

“Good Toron! If not for your graciousness we would not have had such games today!” The Emperor invites him forward with benevolence, “speak your mind.”

Emerson has no love lost for the man, a slimy toad that dares to rise above his station, free from slavery only because his ancestors in the far North bent knee to the Mountain and fought the other clans beside them as auxiliary.

“The two girls show great promise in the Arena,” his ingratiating smile is met with disdain by the  _ Legatus _ , “and I have new slaves coming in tomorrow. To begin training as Gladiators.” 

He bows again, deeper now towards Emerson, “if I were to purchase them from you… the training is hard and they may not survive the fortnight.” 

Emerson sees the way out of his shame, even if he does not like its source. Yet, in the end the girls will be dead, and the  _ princeps’  _ bruised ego recovered.

“We will be merciful, hm?” the Emperor decides, turning towards the cheering onlookers, to announce his decision. He pauses.

“What of the injured one?”

“I’ll throw her in for free,” Emerson smirks malevolent, “I have no need for cripples.” A reminder to the  _ Azgeda _ man that he is nothing more than a base cur to him. 

His own pride recovers a little at the satisfaction.  __

He puts on a mask of piety and stands besides his Emperor as the girls are spared and ushered away by Guards.

The sands of the Arena will soon drink deep of their blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks for a quick class on lion behaviour go to @mimillekoishi who must have watched every lion documentary in existence.


	3. Prisoners Of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After defeating Janus Clarke and Octavia get separated. Alone and injured Clarke has a close encounter with an enemy and makes a new friend. Meanwhile in the bowels of the Arena, Bellamy meets his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! Slowly picking up the slack from the summer vacation and dealing with some personal issues. I will try to post more often but honestly can't promise anything.
> 
> As usual your kudos and comments mean the world to me. Keep them coming! 
> 
> A special thanks to @m0ses0 who beta'd this for me. You should go and check her art on Tumblr. It's amazing. Perhaps I can convice her to draw gladiator Clarke for me ;)

_ “You can have peace, or you can have freedom _

_ Don’t ever count on having both at once.” _

Robert A. Heinlein

 

Clarke’s arm shakes and the sword drops from nerveless fingers with a thud. The roar coming from the onlookers is deafening, an almost physical wall of sound. 

She meets Octavia’s eyes, as lost as her own. Her body is a mass of bruises and pain. All she wants to do is go to Raven or lay on the sand and rest.

The crowd suddenly quiets. Clarke turns to see their attention focused on a man with white hair.

He looks almost fatherly, patrician features the picture of serenity, but she is not fooled. His eyes remain distant even as he smiles down at the girls. 

Clarke straightens, trying to ignore the dull throbbing of her back. A second man in elaborate armor comes up next to the first. She recognizes her captor and her lips pull back in a grimace. 

Pasty and Sour, her brain dubs them. She’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.

“You have fought well,” Pasty begins, “and thus honored our Gods!” Octavia curses angrily and Clarke hopes she will hold her peace. Another gate opens on the side of the Arena and guards are filing through in perfect formation. 

“Live,” he concludes, “and fight another day!” He gestures, then turns sharply on his heel. Without another word, the elderly man is gone. Sour lingers a moment longer, the heat of his gaze prickling at her skin before he nods to her mockingly.

Guards close ranks around Clarke, using the shafts of their spears to herd her, and when she manages to peek above their shoulders the balcony is empty. 

Fear closes around her throat as she realizes Octavia is nowhere nearby. They are being separated. She tries to push through two guards, and manages to sneak and arm between their armored flanks. 

“Octavia!” She catches a glimpse of Raven’s mangled body being lifted onto a stretcher and her attempts become increasingly frantic. 

“Clarke!” Octavia reaches for her.   
A thick arm winds around her waist and she is lifted backwards, the tips of her fingers briefly brushing Octavia’s outstretched hand before they are ripped apart. 

Clarke keeps shouting her friend’s name until her fellow Arkers have long disappeared from view.

* * *

 

Bellamy tries the door again. He knows it will be no use. He shrugs his jacket off with a grunt of disgust and then, just as he is about to toss it to the side, his fingers find Factory Station’s emblem. He traces the careful stitching, noticing that some has come unraveled.

Just like their lives.

He hurls the jacket away furiously and his eyes drop to the cell’s floor. Their jailers have removed Wells body, but have not bothered to clean the blood away. The fluid is slowly coalescing into a viscous pool.

Bellamy had thought that their coming to Earth could be a second chance. Now all they have is a fistful of ashes.

The last memory he has of Camp Jaha is the early morning light glinting off the razor-wire. The sun was barely poking over the treetops, washing everything into the same pinkish hue he associates with dreams.

The strangers arrived at Camp Jaha with the rising sun

The most unsettling part had been the lack of screams. The Greek myths he had loved so much as a child are full of them, the blood-curdling wails of the dying and the raped as a citadel falls. They had run, scattering like frightened rabbits into the forest. He had tried to stick by Octavia’s side, but she had disappeared along with Clarke, herded by hunters in a different direction.

His relief at finding both alive despite the situation had been short lived.

A rattle, coming from the other side of the door, pushes him back to the far wall with hurried steps. Guards step inside and the foremost grabs him by the front of his shirt.

“Give us no trouble boy,” he is pushed and pulled between the men like they’re the arms of a pinball machine. The speaker spares a long look at the stain on the floor before he lifts his eyes back to Bellamy’s. The unspoken threat hangs heavily between them. Bellamy grinds his teeth together and wills himself to relax in their hold. The hope he can still defend Octavia  refuses to die down in his chest, steering him to an unfamiliar meekness.

The man grunts with satisfaction and Bellamy is taken out of the cell. They push him deeper into the building’s recesses.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Quiet.”

The word is a lowly hiss and the fingers holding him dig deep into the flesh of his shoulder. Bellamy’s eyes dart about, but the endless corridors all look the same. Soon he is utterly lost and he doubts he could ever find his way out of the maze unguided.

The air grows colder and the halls darken as torches become few and far between. He doesn’t know how far they make him walk, but the pressure of the ground above his head becomes a baleful roar inside his ears.

They come to an abrupt stop in front of a door that looks much like the others they have passed. They shove him inside.

This cell is different, cleaner. It smells faintly of something that reminds him of bleach. It catches at the back of his throat and he coughs as his eyes take in more details. The walls and floor are a shade of pristine white that hurts his eyes. A neon light glows on the ceiling, painfully sharp.

It’s the artificial brightness that gives him pause, even more than the metal table in the middle of the room. The blend of technology and savagery leaves him stunned. 

He recognizes the room for what it is - a surgical theater like the ones on the Ark - although no instruments are on display here. There is an aura of despair about the room, and its cleanliness does nothing to dispel it. It saturates the pores of his skin, clings to the muscle and bone beneath. 

Nothing good can come of this.

His hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed and he is shoved forward again, so hard he stumbles and grabs the edge of the table for support. The chill of it moves up his arms and a lone shiver expands inside him. He snatches his hands back, reeling away but the guards crowd him and push him down on the table. One of them snatches the edge of his shirt and rips it away. 

They force him down on the metal surface. The table sucks all of the warmth from his body.The guards hold him in place until coarse leather straps are tightened around his wrists and ankles.

They leave him alone without a backward glance and he hopes it’s nothing worse than death he’s waiting on.

* * *

Clarke’s throat runs dry and her vocal chords feel as though they have been stripped raw from her screams.

She is too exhausted, too hurt to care where they are taking her. Her back throbs dully with each step. Sharp streaks of agony run down her spine whenever her movements break the thin crust of drying blood coating her wounds.

Her vision swims, doubling like a badly focused image. It runs with black on the edges and flashes of white steal it away completely. As they leave the glaring sun she stumbles, and the two guards that flank her grab an arm each without much ceremony, dragging her along. 

Blood leaks down her face, obscuring her vision further. It tinges everything in red, no matter how furiously she blinks it away.

Clarke’s lips pull down into a grimace She does not look at the guards, or attempt to talk with them. The sting of their shock lances is still quite vivid against her skin. Their hold is hard and unyielding, yet she feels a new stiffness in their steps. She realizes they are wary of her now.

Clarke coughs surreptitiously, masking a laugh. She certainly does not feel very dangerous.

They throw her into a different cell this time and she is thankful. She doesn’t think she could revisit the place where Wells died without crumbling. It is a small mercy, although she doubts the gesture is born from kindness. She shudders at the memory of a spear stabbing down into her friend’s  neck, his last, gurgling breath filling her ears.

Before leaving, one of the guards pushes her to the far wall. He grabs her wrists and fastens them to the shackles bolted there. She is too tired to resist. They chafe the sensitive skin and she hisses as her back scrapes against the uneven wall. He ignores her and leaves, sealing her inside.

Clarke lowers herself to the floor with a sigh and a rattle of rusted metal. The chains are long enough that she can sit comfortably, but too short for her to lay on her side. They hold her arms up like she’s a marionette. It’s fitting.

She shuffles along the wall as much as she is able, trying to find a decent spot, then stills completely. The chill of the stone seeps into her frame and soothes the pain a little. Clarke’s gaze is drawn to the glistening trail of blood she left behind as she moved. She doesn’t think   
she will bleed out, but she knows the cuts will get infected if they aren’t treated.

Her clothes are drenched in red and bits of bone and slimy grey matter cling to her. The traces of violence are everywhere – on her skin, in her hair, underneath her fingernails. She is sure her very bones are saturated with it.

She looks up at her stained hands with wonder, remembering the shocks that travelled through her arms with each blow of her weapon. She never thought she could carry so much anger inside.

It terrifies her.

Her tired thoughts shy away from dark places and turn inevitably to her friends, especially Raven. She knows all of the Arkers are expendable; herself included. Why would these people waste resources to help an unknown teenage girl with a wounded leg? The grief that has been lodged in her heart since Wells’ death turns razor-sharp and cuts her to ribbons. She closes her eyes, shutting down the outside world, escaping for at least a little while.

She drifts in and out of sleep. Shivers and scorching heat seize her limbs in turn. She dreams of being back in Camp Jaha before the attack, and of solitary confinement.

The ornamentation of that cell had been different, but the intent behind it was the same. Thoughts drift lazily across her mind, some crystal clear like the landing, or a figure staring at her across the sands of the Arena. Although maybe the last had been an imagined ghost that sent sparks coursing through her veins.

Clarke is jolted out of her stupor by muffled voices and the jingle of keys behind the cell door. She fights the urge to get to her feet and remains seated, head titled back, breathing deep and even. 

There’s a creak as the heavy door to her cell swings open. She feels more than sees the shadow fall over her. It’s accompanied by a draft of cold air and the soft scuffle of sandaled feet on stone.

“You have caused me grievance, girl.”

The words are a grated hiss meant to scare and wound, but Clarke has no energy left for fear. She decides to ignore her visitor.

“What is your name?” The voice persists, the tone imperious. Clarke keeps quiet. She pretends the man is a ghost, a disembodied entity conjured by her mind.

A cruel hand grabs a fistful of her hair and jerks her head up, shaking her so violently her teeth click together. Clarke’s back bumps against the stone and she bites back a cry of pain.

She cracks open one eye, grunting when the clotted blood pulls on her lashes. She doesn’t think she has seen him before. The man is young, his dark hair cropped short like the soldiers’. But a soldier is made of hardened muscle. The only hard thing about this man are his eyes.

He grows impatient and draws back a leg to kick an answer out of her.

For a split second she considers holding back. Her name is the only thing she has left. As his foot aims for her chest, she reconsiders. A name is not worth a broken rib.

“Clarke,” she spits it like an insult.

The kick lands anyway and she grits her teeth to swallow her cry of pain.

The man smirks down at her. Clarke’s ribs throb dully where a new bruise is forming, and she aches to cross her arms over her midriff. She wants to howl her pain out, but the man leans forward, like a hound sniffing blood. 

A sadist, then.

He crouches down and his fingers move to cup her chin, almost tenderly, grasping it so she can’t tear her gaze away.

“I am the Emperor, girl. Answer quickly next time.”

“Suck my dick.” 

The obscenity she picked up from Murphy tumbles from her lips, before coherent thought has a chance to stop it. 

His open handed blow cracks loudly against her cheek. Her lips split and salt coats her tongue. The man’s shoulders heave as he takes in slow lungfuls of air, an enraged bull ready to charge.

“You are lucky to have been bought,” he snarls past gritted teeth, standing up, “if I was your master I would have your tongue removed for your insolence. Perhaps I should advise Toron on this matter. You won’t have much use for it in the ring..”

He starts pacing the length of the cell which is maybe three steps, clenching and unclenching his fists. Finally he stops, facing her again and pulls a small purse from his belt. He tugs the strings open and empties the contents over Clarke’s head.

Coins hit her scalp in a solid shower of silver and gold, tumbling onto her lap. They roll all over the floor with a tinkling sound that feels like mocking laughter. Clarke’s gaze follows them as they bounce around; one side bears the impression of a mountain, the other a woman - a goddess perhaps - a strangely shaped object floating above her upturned palm.  

“Why couldn’t you just _ die _ ?” He discards the empty purse angrily and Clarke can’t hold back a snarling jab.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He grunts sourly, but to her relief does not hit her again.

“You have fire, girl. We will see how well that will serve you in the Arena,” his laugh is sudden and cruel, “you have no idea what is waiting for you.”

He spits at her face in distaste and whirls around marching to the door. He pauses, a hand of the doorframe and shoots one last angry look over his shoulder. Guards in breastplates bedecked in gilt and carvings appear in the hallway beyond like faithful hounds. 

“The shadow of the Mountain is vast, Clarke,” his voice is thick with contempt “and you will yet die under it.”

He finally leaves without closing the door and Clarke releases a breath she had not realized she was holding. His voice, along with the clattering of the guards fades with distance.

As she starts to wonder why the door has been left open, another visitor appears. This man is dressed in a dark tunic and matching breeches. The clothes are built to be practical and durable. Slave clothes. 

He carries a leather satchel slung over one shoulder and flashes her a quick smile when he catches her eye. 

He steps inside the cell and motions for someone to follow. It is a guard, but the livery is unlike any Clarke has seen so far. His tunic is lined with fur, and its color reminds her of the ice and snow she has only seen in movies on the Ark. Where the others were clean shaven and almost austere, his hair is wild and he sports a fearsome beard, arranged in a myriad of small braids. Bits of bone are set at their ends, and they clatter together menacingly as he moves towards her.  

Clarke instinctively presses back against the wall and immediately regrets it. Her cuts scrape against the stone, and white-hot bolts of pain spear through her like lightning

“Unchain her, Asger,” the first man comments drily, “I need to look at her back.” He sets the satchel down with a sigh as the warrior grunts and pats his sword-hilt with a significant glare in her direction, “I don’t think she in the condition to try anything,” he adds.

The guard only grunts in reply and unfastens her manacles. His hands are calloused and uncaring, the rough metal scraping more skin off her wrists as it is removed. Still she refuses to show her pain.

“You can leave.”

To Clarke’s amazement he does, banging the door shut after him.

Clarke is surprised the guard obeys at all. Maybe she was wrong, and this man is not a slave? She fights to keep her features still. The stranger is rummaging in the satchel, setting out cloth and a series of surgical instruments and doesn’t look at her when he speaks.

“He obeys only because  _ dominus _ ordered him to.” He must have perceived her surprise, despite her efforts.

“ _ Dominus _ ?” Her brow creases in confusion at the unfamiliar word. She knows it’s latin, her father had shown her pictures of old books and read her words that rang similar, but when she searches her memory for a meaning she draws a blank. With the way her luck has been running, it cannot be good. If Bellamy were here, he’d know. She forces herself to swallow down the sudden sting of longing in her chest.

“My master,” his voice lowers and he meets her questioning gaze, holding it within his. His dark eyes fill with resignation, “and yours.” He rolls up a sleeve to expose his forearm. A mark is  burned into the skin. The man has been branded like cattle..

Clarke forces herself to look even if she doesn’t want to, realizing he is showing  her something private and painful. Something he is ashamed by.

“I am Nikou,” he resumes in friendlier tones, “and you are Clarke.” He grins at her surprise.

“You were outside the whole time?” Clarke blurts incredulously. Her face must be a spectacle, because he throws his head back and roars with laughter.

“An advantage of being a slave, the only one perhaps, is that if you keep out of the way you are invisible.” He helps her to turn so he can examine her back, and his hands are surprisingly gentle.

Clarke clamps her teeth together so hard her gums start to ache. Nyko pries her jacket off slowly and her arms quiver in protest as blood rushes through limbs made rigid by her confinement. She grunts, determined to conceal her discomfort.

As a doctor, Nyko is obviously familiar with injury, but she doesn’t want to voice her pain, afraid that those who savor it could be within earshot.

A knife cuts away what’s left of the shirt’s back. Her hands grasp at the front of it to preserve a bit of modesty. Clarke knows it’s stupid, naked people come with the medical profession, and the fact it bothers her so much tells her how distressed she truly is.

Despite Nyko’s delicate movements scabs of dried blood peel away with the cloth. The cuts sting as they reopen and Clarke bites back an oath. Nyko taps her shoulder and her eyes pop open.

She half turns and he offers her a bit of clean cloth. He doesn’t say what it’s for but Clarke understands anyway and puts it in her mouth. As he starts to work the gag becomes a necessity. For surely without it her gums would be cracked and bleeding, her teeth grinding to dust. As it is her jaw aches and she can feel a building pressure in her temples.

She feels the healer’s careful fingers move along her exposed back as he dabs at the lacerations with a cloth dipped in vinegar to ward off infections. The few sections of her back that Janus did not manage to slice open feel sore with bruises. The lion’s talons have cut a bloody path from her left shoulder blade and across to her lower back. Rolling on the ground has done the rest and her body throbs, marred by abrasions and shallow nicks.

Some of the wounds feel deep enough that Clarke is sure muscle must show through, but she has been lucky. Certainly luckier than her friend who maybe isn’t even alive anymore.

In a way death would probably be kinder. What use could these people have for cripples except as curiosities to be gawked at? Yet she refuses to believe that Raven’s dead.  

Nyko discards the cloth, now tinted a deep red, and she watches him pick up a hooked needle and thread. He warms the sliver of metal on open flame, then pulls the sliced folds of skin together with his free hand and begins stitching. Clarke tenses, keens from somewhere deep within throat, but with supreme effort manages to stop. Her jaws work around the makeshift gag. She bites on it, chewing on the fabric to silence herself.

The smell of vinegar pricks Clarke’s nose as Nyko rinses the gore away, while working along the cuts. The hot needle scratches skin already reddened, and she feels the thread slither underneath.. Clarke hears herself moan again and swallows the sound back, sucking it down into her lungs. She breathes through her nose, shallow and even, as her head starts to swim with nausea. She doesn’t want to pass out.

It’s slow work and there are many, many cuts.

“You have a gift for making fast friends,” he chuckles in amusement, “although that may be an understatement.”

_ “Suck my dick,”  _ me mumbles under his breath and pauses in his work, shaking with laughter.

Clarke spits the gag out, flushing at the good natured jab. “Oh, bite me.” The healer only laughs harder.

“He isn’t the Emperor by the way. Not yet.” He sobers up, “when he Ascends our lives will be all the harder.”

“Does it matter which of them is Emperor? They’re all cruel,” she replies bleakly as the bite of the needle resumes, “does life have no value here?”

“Bad comes by degrees.”He snaps the thread off with a tug. Silence begins to stretch between them. When he speaks again she almost jumps, having been lulled to a stupor by the quiet.

“If death has no cost, how can life be worth something?” Clarke somehow feels like these words are well oiled with use. “Our conquerors have nobody to remind them of that cost.”

“Somebody ought to.” she murmurs bitterly.

After that they lapse back to a comfortable silence. When he is done with bandaging her back, he mixes powdered herbs with water and instructs her to drink.

“It will help the pain,” he explains as she blanches at the first mouthful. The concoction is so  bitter it makes her toes curl. It burns going down and makes her body feel heavy within moments. She feels the healer ease her down carefully, and pull a blanket around her.

“Wait,” the word catches on the tip of her tongue as sleep approaches, “what about Raven? Is...is she…” She has to know.

She cannot speak further, the drug robbing her of all remaining strength. He crouches next to her, placing a kind hand on her shoulder.

“I did what I could for your friend. The Spirits will decide her fate now.”

Clarke blinks slowly up at him and his features blur into one confused shadow. She doesn’t feel him leave as she drops like a stone into unconsciousness.

* * *

Lexa sits on her cot, soaking in the quiet.

As always after a day spent fighting, she is glad her status affords her a private living space.

These rare moments of calm are as vital to her survival as air and water. Here, stripped of her weapons and armor, she is simply herself, not the fearless warrior the crowd cheers, or Heda to people that still cling to the title like it has meaning.

She runs a hand over her bandaged thigh absently, trying to soothe muscles still knotted by adrenaline. Her thoughts veer back to the day’s fights and her eyes close as she struggles to let go of the violent images seared into her mind. A pang of regret makes the spaces between her ribs ache as she recalls Flamma’s death.

_ Dominus _ had been overjoyed at her victory, praising her yet again for the glory she brought to the  _ Ludus _ . Lexa has tried to tell herself glory is what she craves, sometimes even managing to believe her own well-crafted lies. Yet there is only so much of it one can stomach before it starts to ring hollow.

She pats her wounded flesh, hoping it will scar, leaving her a tangible sign of the man she wishes she could have spared.

Lexa is a warrior born and bred, but the senselessness of the games has never been lost to her. Some of the younger gladiators still believe that if they earn enough, fight well enough one day they will be set free.

The veterans know better. 

Tales of freedom and escape are always second hand accounts, and have been told so many times, by so many different voices they have acquired the quality of legends. Nobody ever speaks up to discredit them though.

Hope is a commodity they can’t afford to lose.

When her thoughts stray to fair hair and piercing blue eyes, she stands, deciding to walk off the lingering tension in the training yard.

Before she can take two steps, a shadow appears on the doorway, haloed by the setting sun.

“ _ Doctore. _ ” She inclines her head slightly, her tone guarded.

“What seized your mind, allowing Flamma to regain his weapon in the Arena?” Gustus does not return her greeting. His eyes are dark with worry disguised as anger.

“Honor.” Without it as her moral compass, she is nothing.

“Honor,” he snarls mockingly, “a fine quality. Often possessed by those who perish from it.”

He inhales deeply, reining himself in with effort. His voice is softer when he resumes.

“ _ Heda, _ ” whenever the masters aren’t around he defers to her, although as trainer he is above the other gladiators, “Flamma shared your sentiment, but what will happen when you face someone that doesn’t?”

They both know the answer, but Lexa doesn’t give it voice. She may struggle to see herself as Heda, but the clans look up to her. Every victory in the Arena shows them that survival is possible. They endure, carrying the flame of hope inside themselves, because she does. If she can survive the odds, so can they and perhaps one day even know freedom.

If she falters, they will all be crushed under the Mountain.

“I will take more care,” she concedes finally and he nods, relief evident on his face.

He lets her through and follows her outside. They fall into step, pacing the empty yard. The last rays of the sun are like a warm caress on Lexa’s back, and she feels her tension ebb away slowly.

“A new batch of recruits arrives tomorrow,” he informs her evenly.

She shrugs, unconcerned.

“The girl that bested Janus is among them.” He stops and turns to face her, gauging her reaction.

Lexa has to fight to keep her face still, as surprise boils to the surface. Her hands curl into fists and she clasps them at her back to keep herself from shaking. Resentment perches on her shoulders like a physical weight.

“It would have been better if she had died on the sand,” she manages finally, between clenched teeth.

“We’ll see,” he replies gravelly. He nods to her again and walks towards the mess hall, but not before Lexa catches the amused glint in his eyes.

She whips around sharply and stalks back to her cell. Janus’ end flashes through her mind. Pride tells her the kill should have been hers, yet she can’t help but feel a begrudging admiration for the one that survived those odds. She can’t stop thinking about the moment their eyes met. She had thought nothing of it at the time, but that blue gaze haunts her. She feels like that strange girl has crawled under her skin. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

Lexa lets herself drop down on her bed with a grunt. She is exhausted, drained, but sleep is a beast that refuses to be hunted.

When it finally comes, her dreams have her toss and mutter in her sleep. She runs through the landscapes of her mind, but wherever she goes, blue eyes follow.

Lexa feels like drowning.

* * *

The needle pierces the side of his neck and Bellamy stifles a groan. The man holding his head still steps back and  removes his hands.

Bellamy wets his lips. They are dry and chapped under his tongue.

“What…” he croaks weakly. His voice breaks and he coughs. His ribs ache from the shaking and surely his throat is full of sand.

“What--what did you give me?” He manages to rasp when the fits subside.

When the men appeared, Bellamy had been relieved. He had been lying alone for what felt like an eternity and the irrational fear they had just forgotten him had settled like a stone on his chest.

The two men sharing the room with him move to the far wall, talking quietly to each other. At first Bellamy had thought they were doctors, with their lab coats and masks and gloves. Now he is not so sure.

He opens his mouth to repeat the question, but a violent spasm rips the words from his mouth. His jaws seize up and he nearly bites his tongue off.

Warmth spreads from his neck to the rest of his body and beads of sweat gather at his hairline. His arms and legs move jerkily, as if someone else is fighting for control of his body. He trembles, teeth chattering, and if it wasn’t for the restraints he’d crash to the floor.

A scream splits his chest in two, then others chase it as foam gathers at the corners of his lips. He rolls his eyes madly, pleadingly looking at the men. One of them casually checks an old fashioned pocket watch.

Bellamy’s fear is rapidly swallowed by anger His flesh burns with it to the point he feels his bones are going to shatter.

Red creeps into his vision and he snarls, chewing on his lower lip. The taste of his own blood sends him into a frenzy. He wants to tear at the belts that hold him down, cross the room and rip the men to shreds.  

His name is the first thing to go, swallowed by the tide of blood roaring in his ears. He forgets where he is, where he comes from. Nothing matters but the all-devouring anger that heats his belly like a furnace.

Whatever they gave him is breaking him down to his primal, molecular level..

He roars, spit flying from his lips.

“Give him another dose in two hours,” the man with the watch says coldly, before exiting the room without a backward glance. The other one follows and Bellamy is left alone with his own screams.

A dark-haired girl’s face fills his vision and somehow he knows she is important. He clings to her like a ship at anchor in high seas, but his mind’s hold slowly gives under the pressure.

She slips from his memory and he howls.

Everything is red. The Red is everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think?


	4. A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Octavia are reunited, but relief is short lived as they are taken somewhere new and frightening to begin a new life as slaves. They fear for their future and for their friends and it looks like only Nyko is willing to provide some answers.
> 
> Meanwhile in the Ludus, Lexa goes through her routine but can't keep the girl that slaughtered Janus off her mind. They are about to finally come face to face and their lives will change. Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you have a wonderful idea for a fic and then you seem to have less and less time to write and depression also gets in the way? 
> 
> Well I had some bad bouts of the Sads and as a result there were some of my plots I could not touch, it being the themes or just a general mood. 
> 
> Anyway here I am (finally) with a new chapter. I hope you still want to see the story through with me. 
> 
> This one is for @sameafnir - for your comments and encouragement and patience,
> 
> As usual kudos and comments are much appreciated.

Night shrouds the city as Toron and his retinue finally leave the Arena, prized Gladiators securely on their way back to the _Ludus_ and his new acquisitions taken care of for the night. It isn’t a very large or impressive retinue at that, he thinks morosely as his gaze touches on the slaves surrounding him; a torchbearer, his personal secretary Titus (and a wonder he found someone educated enough for the job among the Trikru) and two of the Ludus’ guards in standard black gear with cloaks trimmed in white ermine to symbolize the Azgeda clan.

He runs his hand across tired features, the ridges of his tribal scarring a familiar, reassuring thing beneath his fingertips. He is tired and craves his bed, yet a flame of elation burns brightly into his chest for the first time in years. He really never wanted to be _lanista_ , but his father scorned the wish he had for a military career, saying the Mountain had already conquered all the lands that mattered and that the auxiliary was demeaning for a clan that had chosen their own kings and queens for many seasons. He’d viewed those that served the Emperor as foot soldiers like little more than dogs fighting for the scraps their masters let absentmindedly fall under the table. Of course these opinions had never been expressed outside the confines of their home, but Toron had endured their buzzing presence for years.

He shakes his head at the memory, more resigned to circumstances than angry. Yet he feels that fate has made him its favorite plaything, as it not only saddled him with a job he doesn’t relish, but burdened him with an ambitious wife as well.

His thoughts invariably point towards the villa and his bed and he refocuses on the path ahead, lifting his cloak fastidiously as the moon reflects on a rivulet of something indescribable on the ground.

The Arena serves the rich and influent as well as the poor, and so it was built in the no man’s land where the dwellings of the fortunate and those of the destitute meet. The air is gravid with smells best left unnamed, but a whiff of what he thinks is ammonia has him lifting the edge of the cloak to cover his mouth and his eyes begin to water, breaking the light of the torch ahead into a kaleidoscope of melting red and writhing yellow. One of the guards hacks noisily, spitting on the ground in distaste and mutters something about the lesser clans that sounds rather uncomplimentary. As they cross into a main artery and a small stream of shit and piss swirls lazily by in the ditch at the side of the cobblestoned road, he tends to agree.

The Emperor does what he can to keep Polis in a good state, at least in those areas where his people live, but those quarters where the clans are confined are an entirely different story. Everyone is a slave to a bigger or lesser degree, even the Azgeda people despite his wife’s insistence.

Speaking of, he fervently hopes that she is asleep.

As they take the road that sneaks up the hill towards a more agreeable part of town he is treated to a full view of the Emperor’s Tower. The bonfire always burning at the top pierces the night’s gloom like a spear of light and Toron thinks back to the old legends that talk of how it used to be Heda’s seat of power when that title meant something. The stories seem  far removed from what they live under the Mountain’s shadow, as do those of the Azgeda kings. His wife disagrees, eyes filling with an unquenchable thirst when she lays them on that seat of power. Then again the blood of those same kings runs through her veins and is far more ambitious that he will ever be **.**

The road grows steeper and they leave the noises of taverns and still open shops behind, the houses around them growing bigger and fancier as they go. The _ludus_ used to be as sumptuous back in his father’s day, and that was perhaps why he’d managed to marry someone of royal blood.

Now he barely manages to make ends meet, no matter that he has some of the best gladiators among his warriors and the last _Heda_ herself. He isn’t as favored as the _lanistas_ that belong to the _Maunon_ , and he knows he landed the main fight in the morning games only because the masters have been desperate for a rain that doesn’t come.

Just as his calves begin to ache from the long ascent, the _ludus_ comes into view. A tall stone wall fences off the premises from the quiet street, hiding the training grounds and the Gladiators’ quarters as well as the _villa_ where he and his family live. Torches burn at each sides of the guarded gate as usual, and the two soldiers leaning against the wall straighten to attention when he appears, polished spear tips gleaming dangerously.

_“Dominus!”_ the Maunon word sounds weirdly distorted in their thick northern accent.

“Is everything in order?”

“ _Sha_ ,” the older warrior replies with a respectful nod, “the Gladiators that fought today have been brought back and seen to, lord.”

“Very well,” Toron nods curtly, wariness spurring him inside, “shut the gate for the night.” The soldiers leap to obey and he begins to cross the courtyard, eyes narrowing when a shadow detaches itself from the darkness gathered under the wall and falls in step with him.

“ _Gostos._ ” Somehow the _lanista_ is not surprised that his Doctore is still awake, “the new batch of recruits will be larger than expected eh?” This is no news to his trainer, but Toron breaches the subject to get an honest opinion out of him. Most people (his wife included) would say he pays too much heed to a slave’s advice, but the man has a knack for moulding simple fighters into gods of the Arena. He digs and digs at Toron’s recruits until he finds their potential or they die under the strain.  And better for them to die in training than shame the _Ludus_ during the games. As usual Doctore takes a few moments to order his thoughts before he grunts out an answer.

“The blonde one has fire. She could become something if it’s properly harnessed. The other one...she didn’t show as much initiative, still she survived where others perished.”

Gustus falls silent, but as they near the villa, a trace of disgruntlement hangs heavy between them.

“Speak your mind, _Doctore_.” They halt at the foot of the stairwell leading to his family’s living quarters and Toron turns to face his slave. A single burning torch affords him enough light to get a clear view of Gustus’ face. The trainer’s dark eyes are as guarded as ever, but there is a tension in the way he holds his shoulders back and the drumming of his fingers on the ivory handle of the whip coiled at his hip. The man almost looks offended and Toron believe he has a good idea regarding the why.

“The _Legatus_ has slighted you lord, saddling this house with a cripple!” The words are snarled and tinged with an undercurrent of pity. The clans value strength above all else and Gustus sees the girl’s fate as something worse than death. Toron agrees to an extent, yet he sees opportunities as well.

“You saw the way the other two fought to protect the wounded one,” he offers carefully and watches as understanding dawns on Gustus’ face.

“You mean to use the crippled girl to control the other two. What if she dies, lord?”

Toron doles out a thin smile as he begins to ascend to the villa and a much desired bed, “then we’ll have to make sure she does not, won’t we?”

He leaves _Doctore_ behind and hard at thought, and as he enters the villa’s elevated courtyard he heaves a sigh of relief. All is quiet in the house, the only sound the soft fizzle of the fat burning at the end of flickering torches. No slave appears to tend to him, but for once he doesn’t mind the lack of solicit hands around him, basking in a deep silence that soothes his tired spirit after the chaos of a day spent in the Arena. He has a mind to drop to his bed fully dressed, but his steps carry him to the vestibule adjacent his study where the severe marble likenesses  of every Champion ever gracing the _Ludus_ mount an eternal vigil.

There in the shadows between the statues’ plinths, his wife springs her ambush, her surprise appearance like a bitter mouthful forcing his jaws wide.

Nia’s voice is the hiss of a viper uncoiling to strike a venomous blow against unwary step.

“Are you out of your _fucking_ mind?”

Any hope of a well deserved rest evaporates.

* * *

 

Clarke sleeps, heavily at first, then more fitfully as nightmares nip at her mind like hunting dogs. The blonde half wakes several times through the night and always, just before she jerks herself to consciousness, drenched in a cold sweat, an endless sea of green builds up behind her eyes.

 

When a heavy hand squeezes her shoulder, she blinks frantically awake, the lion stalking her dreams roaring to life above her for an instant. She is back in the Arena, the beast poised to rip her to shreds, then the beast’s snarling visage merges into a face she recognizes. The healer Nyko is back, one hand holding her still, the other raised in a calming gesture.

“Can you stand?” his voice is barely above a whisper and before she can reply he casts a meaningful look to the cell’s door, guards crowding just outside, “it would be best not to show weakness.”

“I can.” True to her word, Clarke gathers her legs beneath her, pushing herself to her knees first, then clawing to the wall for support as she totters to her feet. The stitches pull and pinch her skin, the hard floor on which she rested having done nothing to soothe her aching muscles.  

Once she is upright and starts walking to the door, one guard steps forward, a set of manacles dangling from his fist. Instinctively she slows her pace, feet dragging, and feels Nyko’s hand tighten slightly on her shoulder, pushing gently forward. When she shoots him a questioning look, he gives a small shake of his head and, understanding the silent advice, the blonde offers her wrists meekly.

The guard seems surprised by the lack of resistance, but fastens the chains quickly and turns his back on her, sure she will follow without protest.

In the corridor a small group is waiting and Clarke is almost floored by relief when she sees Octavia, sullenly hemmed between two men. The brunette’s face is darkened by a fierce scowl and she is bleeding from a split lip, but her eyes brighten and brim with tears she stoically holds back when she spots her friend.

Clarke wants to rush to her side, hug her and make sure she is alright, but she is painfully aware of all the people watching, weighting, and if Nyko’s words of caution are to be believed, looking for a chance to use any weakness she may show against her.

So she forces herself to cover the distance quickly as the guards make room for her to stand next to Octavia before closing ranks and moving down the corridor, but when she is sure none of them are paying the prisoners any mind, she reaches down awkwardly, hindered by the chains around her wrists and squeezes one of Octavia’s hands in hers.

“I was afraid you were dead.” Octavia whispers, squeezing Clarke’s fingers just as fiercely as the blonde is doing. Clarke keeps her eyes fixed ahead and she feels her friend shift to copy her stance so as not to draw unwanted attention. The blonde’s mouth barely moves when she whispers back.

“I feared the same for you.” Underlying pain turns her reply to a hoarse hiss and Octavia’s thumb rubs the back of her hand soothingly as she winces in sympathy, almost as if she herself could feel the wounds left by the lion.

The corridor they are marching along begins to slope upwards and Clarke loses track of the conversation for a moment. Perhaps they are being taken somewhere different, but she can’t judge if it’s a good thing or bad. The other possibility is that they are going to be thrown into the fray again, and her stomach plummets at the thought.

“What about Raven?”

She asks after a while, fighting back a sudden wave of angry, impotent tears.

“I don’t know. And asking got me this.” Octavia brings a hand up and gingerly touches her lip. It’s puffing up and it must sting, but both of them got worse since coming to the ground. The thought of Bellamy makes Clarke grimace.

They have not seen him since they were taken away to fight the lion and she can only hope that wherever they are going now, he will be there, for she hopes there will be at least a touch of safety in numbers.

Clarke watches out of the corner of her eye as a storm of emotions passes over Octavia’s face, and chances are the brunette’s thoughts mirror hers. She can’t help but wonder how many of their people are kept here unbeknownst to them, in this prison seemingly born of a sickening nightmare. She wishes she’d managed to stay awake and listen for anyone calling out the night before, but her body had been too pained and exhausted for her to keep watch. She strains her ears now, to the point that the silence beneath the scuffling of feet and the occasional jingle of armor becomes white noise, hoping she will hear a familiar voice yell for help from behind the closed doors they pass.

No one does.

They come to a halt so abrupt that Clarke starts and almost crashes into the back of the soldier in front of her before managing to bring her shuffling feet to a stop. They are standing in front of an open gate and the glare outside is so blinding when she looks up that her eyes begin to water. Next to her Octavia curses softly, throwing an arm across her face as they are pushed outside and for a moment Clarke is immersed in whiteness while a wave of nausea creeps over her, threatening to take her legs out from under her.

When she wipes stinging tears from her eyes, she sees other guards waiting for them next to an open cart, these men rough looking and wild like the one that accompanied Nyko the night before.

They are handed off to their new escorts without much ceremony and pushed onto the cart. To Clarke’s surprise Nyko joins them as one of the men secures their chains to an iron rung on the cart’s bed, so that they can stand but not get off alone or try to escape by jumping off the sides.

The guards mount strong looking horses and fall into formation around the cart. There are four of them plus the cart’s driver and Nyko and Clarke guesses two girls don’t need that much of an escort. As they rumble slowly down the crowded road, she spares a look for the building they just left and can’t help but feel a bit of awe as its size is even more staggering than what she thought, despite what they went through inside it.

She silently prays to never see it again and her eyes involuntarily lift upwards, to a sky bleached white by the heat.

She prays and prays, but no answer is forthcoming.

* * *

 

Nyko settles on the bench bolted into the cart’s bed with a tired sigh, then grimaces and shifts trying to find a more comfortable position. He feels bone weary and haggard, eyes dry and itchy with sleep after a night spent caring for his master’s new acquisitions. He scratches at his beard and his other hand fishes into a coat pocket and he pops a bunch of mint leaves into his mouth to help clear the headache that is starting to beat behind his eyes.

He knows more work awaits for him once he sets foot into the Ludus.

The girls don’t look his way, but take in the bustling city around them with hungry eyes despite their situation. They affect varying degrees of indifference; Clarke sitting ramrod straight in what is a clear effort to not show pain and the brunette, a foul mouthed thing named Octavia, slumping casually against the side of the cart, an expression of utter boredom plastered on her face, even as her eyes feverishly scan the crowds for something familiar or a way out.

The going is slow, the streets full of people intent on their errands at this time of day, no matter how loudly or often the driver has to curse those that almost get trampled by the horses, too caught up in their affairs to make way with haste.  

When he is sure that the city’s background noise and the cart’s rattling on the paved road are loud enough for his words to get lost in the din, he speaks, addressing a matter of absence he knows weighs heavily on the girls’ minds, from the way their hands never sit quite still and the worrying of lips pulled between their teeth.

“Your friend was taken to the Ludus last night, as soon as I was sure she would survive the trip.”

“She’s alive?” They both look at him, torn between hope and understandable distrust, and Octavia shifts forwards on the bench, so precariously she almost falls into his lap when one of the cart’s wheels hits a particularly rough bump.

One of the guards looks in their direction at the commotion, and Nyko shushes the girl before nodding to the soldier that all is well.

The warrior shakes his head wonderingly, but is most likely satisfied with what he sees since he returns to his study of the road ahead without a backward glance.

“Yes,” Nyko nods, “she is alive, but I cannot yet say if she will make it. You saw the wound as well as I did.”

“Can we see her?” The healer is surprised the brunette frames her request so politely, instead of demanding for it to be fulfilled. He remembers how she earned herself a split lip, and is glad to see the lesson taught her caution.

A careless slave is a dead one.

“That is not for me to say.” He wishes he could give them a better answer and when they exchange a somber glance he lowers his gaze, ashamed he cannot even offer empty reassurances. He has lived all his life a slave, always dreaming of freedom, but never really knowing what it feels like. To him the concept is a mirage, a hazy dream dispelled by the first touch of morning light, and he cannot imagine how it’d feel to have it and see it ripped away so ruthlessly.

“You mentioned this... _ludus,_ ” Clarke says the word deliberately slow and for a moment, he has the distinct impression she may know more than she lets on, but then she continues and the moment passes, “what exactly is it?”

“I think you best see for yourselves,” he shrugs apologetically and flicks his gaze to the road ahead meaningfully, “we are almost there anyway.”

* * *

 

Lexa’s life outside of the Arena is simple, the established routine comforting.

This morning, as all the others before it, she is the first one to rise and she does so gladly, hurrying to the basin and water pitcher on the rickety table that sits in a corner of her small room to dispel the last shreds of her dreams.

She grimaces as she splashes her face; the water is lukewarm, almost as if it had been sitting in the sun for a while, and she feels the heat already building up around her, although the light that filters through the cracks in the door is barely enough to see by without lighting a candle.

Lexa dresses quickly, simple, well worn breeches and a sleeveless tunic she cinches at her waist with a narrow belt go over her undergarments, then she sits briefly on her cot to tug on socks and boots that lace up to mid-calf.

When she steps outside, it’s like walking into a roaring furnace and she takes a little consolation in the fact that not even Janus’ death seems to have moved the Gods into making it rain.

She knows it is petty, yet she cannot help but sting at the slight of having her kill stolen by an untrained whelp. One of the house guards watches her carefully as she walks to the rack where the wooden training weapons are kept to select a _gladius,_ and she finds a certain satisfaction in seeing him stiffen when she turns to face him briefly, blunt weapon a blur in her hands

There are several feet between them, yet his hand descends to grip the hilt of his own sword and she can’t hold back a laugh that is truly a half snarl as she turns away and walks to the opposite corner of the courtyard to work the _palus_.

Soon enough the training grounds are filled with the _clack-clack_ of wood on wood, and Lexa dances around the pole, moving from figure to figure without pause. She slips into a sort of trance where the only thing that matters is the perfection of her footwork and barely bothers to blink the sweat out of her eyes.

She knows Gustus is standing right behind her even before he speaks.

“Stop taunting the guards, Lexa,” his tone is gruff, but sprinkled with mirth and she can’t help a smirk as she halts her sword mid-swing and presents it to the trainer with an elaborate flourish.

“Your will, _Doctore_ ,” her smile is genuine and reciprocated, as they share a small moment of reprieve, but too soon the other gladiators are filing in the yard around them and she feels the usual coating of despair paint her ribs as his face shuts down like a fortress and he dons the mantle their masters have assigned him.

She watches as he walks to the middle of the yard, the whip symbol of his rank held securely in his fist.

“Pair up!” He bellows and his voice is one born to shout orders across a battlefield. For a moment Lexa lingers in this fantasy and imagines standing proudly side by side to fight the Mountain, before shaking it off her shoulders angrily as Anya strides towards her to spar.

They square off eschewing pleasantries and savagely go at each other without warning, because their life depends on it. They are friends, but friendship counts little during training, and nothing in the Arena.

Lexa allows Anya to press the attack and the older woman moves forward, wielding a quarterstaff with the kind of skill that comes from having survived hundreds of blood games, its ends darting across the space that separates them, licking at Lexa’s guard in search of a weak spot.

“Tired already?” Anya quips when a particularly vicious thrust has Lexa on the backfoot.

“You wish,” Lexa darts forward, training sword describing a tight upward arc that almost rips the staff out of the other warrior’s grip. Anya’s foot kicks out even as she shifts her balance back and out of reach, and suddenly Lexa is falling backwards and has to roll out of the way as the staff comes whistling down, threatening to split her scalp open. The end of it thuds hollow against the ground, a puff of sand spraying upwards.

“Perhaps I should be Champion!” Anya’s weapon seems to come alive and bites like a snake as she taunts Lexa into a flurry of strikes that leaves the brunette open to a hard rap on the wrist.

She drops her _gladius_ with a yelp and curses, resisting the urge to nurse the bruise she can feel pulsing under her skin. When she looks up after having assessed the damage, her sparring partner is leaning on her weapon and  mild concern digs furrows into her brow.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Lexa just nods and brushes Anya’s concerns off with a nonchalant shrug, but her insides are churning, her mouth tasting bitter like ash. For a moment as the descending quarterstaff had filled her vision, it had been a different hand wielding the weapon, that of a blue eyed girl that had made sleep all but impossible the night before.

Just as Anya is about to say something else, the main gate opens and a cart rolls slowly through. New slaves are a common occurrence, they come and go, and she never bothers to even learn their names until they have survived their induction.

But this time it’s the exception, and as her eyes alight on flaxen hair and meet a gaze the color of summer, the hate always simmering in her chest roars so fierce it rivals the heat of the day.

She loathes the girl for cracking the stoicism she armors herself with, and the masters for daring to chain someone that carries the stars in their blood.

* * *

 

Clarke follows Nyko’s gaze and watches as their destination comes into view when the cart rounds a bend of the road. She glimpses the roofs of what looks like a sprawling complex peeking over a forbidding wall, and the ensemble speaks of faded grandeur now barely maintained.

Still, there is a stately air about it, and a smidge of suffering in the paste that holds the crumbling stones together and it makes her breastbone quiver with something akin to reverence.

As they cross the threshold into a new life, Clarke finds herself holding her breath, feeling like a trespasser on hallowed ground. This place feels like a monument to something she cannot yet grasp, and a mausoleum in memory of something past, but not forgotten.

She begins to understand as they discover that the yard beyond the gate is full of the same kind of merciless warriors she had seen fighting to death in the Arena.

They have all stopped what they were doing and are staring at them. The quiet after the sounds of the town, reminds her of a funeral.

Then she hears Octavia gasp softly next to her as the girl takes in her surroundings, but she isn’t looking, she isn’t listening anymore.

Green. Green across the yard and it’s real, not a fevered recollection, a piercing arrowhead of jade that pins her to the bench she is still sitting on. It’s real, _she_ ’s real and she stares at Clarke with a look that sends chills down her spine.

The inexplicable spell she’s fallen under is broken by the sudden crack of a whip.


	5. Summoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Octavia pass their first real test, Octavia is reckless and Clarke and Lexa finally come face to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Decided to try and keep the chapters a tad shorter and update (hopefully) more often. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

 

The whip splits the air like thunderclap and, as the courtyard fills with shouts and orders, Clarke is forced to look away from the one that so enthralled her. Their guards dismount and one of them climbs onto the cart’s bed to unfasten the chains that still hold them into the vehicle. Nyko has barely time to whisper a “ _ we’ll talk later _ ,” before he hops off the cart and vanishes inside one of the shadowy doorways lining the small square. 

Without his reassuring presence, she feels suddenly more exposed. 

As the guard grasps Clarke’s elbow firmly and helps her up, she manages to look back towards the assembled warriors, but her green-eyed ghost is now engaged in deep conversation with a tall woman and doesn’t look back towards them. 

Clarke’s stomach drops in disappointment. Somehow - and she knows it’s stupid, wishful thinking - she thought the warrior was looking at them out of interest. She doesn’t hope to find fast friends among the crowd, not really, but perhaps an ally or two. Indifference may kill them as rapidly as the wrong kind of attention.

The guard drags her forward, his hold rough but not cruel. He towers head and shoulders over her, but when Clarke cranes her neck to meet his gaze, she finds that his dark eyes are full of a wary light. He looks down at her with what she reads as contempt pasted on his face, but his sneer seems forced and his lips bleach like he’s hiding a different emotion, one he would be ashamed to show. 

Clarke wants to snort at her own assumption, but contents herself with a shake of her head. Just because she was lucky once, doesn’t mean that she should think herself one of the great warriors mingling across the yard. 

She is pushed into line with other slaves, all of them manacled as well, Octavia by her side. As her eyes carefully surmise the line of people, she spots different tattoos on their faces and what else can be seen of their bodies, patterns and colors varying from one slave to the next. Clarke reasons that the slaves belong to different clans, and knows they will have to learn quickly who belongs to what - there was so much infighting among the Ark Stations, she can’t believe all the slaves go along without incident.

Clarke expects they will be talked to, or perhaps inspected, but the guards retreat in the shade. A bearded man that all the savage-looking warriors seem to defer to steps forward, and that is when she sees the whip held taut between his fists.

“Gladiators! Pair up!” He bellows, and the warriors rush forward to obey, square off in orderly rows and become as still as statues.

“Begin!” He orders and his whip lashes the sand at his feet like a cat’s tail while he walks among them, correcting stances here and there. His command seems to breathe life back into them and the air immediately fills with the hollow clang of wood and dulled metal as the gladiators train. 

Clarke’s eyes roam the rows of sparring warriors until she finds the one with the green eyes. 

She and the tall woman are facing off, weapons moving so fast that they are a blur between them, and the air around the pair practically quivers with violence. 

She and the rest of the new slaves are ignored from the most part, although the warriors occasionally spare them a look. Clarke hears some of them mutter, and a few spit on the ground after one disgusted look in their direction. “ _ Fresh meat _ ,” she hears the snarled jeer several times and also, “ _ already dead. _ ”

The sun edges towards zenith overhead, and hammers down on them without pity. Despite the boots she wears, Clarke feels the sand heat up beneath her, blistering the soles of her feet. But she doesn’t dare shift even a fraction to ease the burning, as she has seen that the whip-carrier keeps looking at them, hard eyes seizing each slave in turn. It dawns on her that this must be a test, to weed out the weakest recruits before any effort is wasted in actual training. 

Sun glare makes her squint and sweat plasters strands of hair to her brow. Droplets cling to her cheeks before slowly dripping down her jawline and soaking into the collar of her shirt. More sweat runs in rivulets down the furrow of her back, making her stitched wounds itch. If her hands weren’t manacled, Clarke would reach around and scratch them even though it would only make it worse. 

When the bearded man’s eyes shift towards another slave she twitches her shoulders, the shirt clinging to her skin, but her relief is only temporary, more sweat drenching the fabric when she stills her careful movements. 

The sun is so hot that Clarke begins to feel lightheaded, her vision wavers and doubles, the wounds inflicted on her by the lion’s claws taking their toll. The blonde clenches her back muscles and wills herself to stay upright. She’ll show these people that she can be as strong and unbreakable as the warriors seem to be. 

From the little she has seen of them they prize strong slaves, and showing them what they wish to see seems like a good way to stay alive. 

Suddenly a thud, accompanied by the cluttering of chains, echoes between the buildings and all activity halts as every warrior freezes, eyes trained on the line of chained slaves. 

Clarke cranes her neck to look towards the end of the line and notices that one of them has fallen into an unmoving heap and - for a moment - she thinks the slave is dead. 

Then her fellow captive - a stocky man with a shaved head - stirs weakly, trying to push up on his knees, but his arms tremble too much and he falls face-first on the sandy ground, a small groan cracking between his ribs.

The bearded man walks to the fallen slave briskly, whip trailing in the sand almost lazily before he brings it around with a flick of his wrist and the strip of leather comes to life, biting the sand in front of the man’s face like a striking snake.

“Gyon op!” [Get up] 

He doesn’t shout and that makes him all the more frightening. The exact meaning of the words is lost to Clarke, but the order is quite clear. 

To his credit the man tries, pushes up onto his elbows before a violent tremor wrecks his frame and he collapses again, face half pressed into the sand and mouth gasping for air.

The whip ripples and this time leather meets bare flesh. Clarke tries not to wince in sympathy when a thin red line appears between the man’s shoulder blades.

“I said get up.” The hint of a snarl laces each word, and the whip bearer’s shadow falls across the fallen slave, “You stand on sacred ground, watered by the tears and blood of those that came before you. I will not allow you to dishonor it!” 

The whip paints red stripes all over the man’s back, but he is so weakened by the heat that he doesn’t even beg for it to stop. What scares Clarke the most is that he takes the beating in utter silence, and the sound of the leather smacking flesh becomes so loud inside her ears that she thinks she’ll go insane from it. 

Punishment stops so abruptly, that her ears ring from the silence, then the whip-carrier turns away, and Clarke finds it weird that his dark eyes bear pity in a face brimming with disgust. 

“This one’s no good,  _ Dominus _ !” The man says, and raises his eyes towards a balcony that overlooks the courtyard. People have appeared there, but Clarke has been too caught up in the slave’s fate to notice. 

A man and a woman lounge against the balustrade, surrounded by slaves, but where the ones in the courtyards are made of iron and sand, these are lithe elegant figures, chosen to be pleasing to the eye. 

“The mines then?” The man calls down - the question sounds one often repeated - and Clarke can tell he asks for their benefit.

“He would not last a day, Dominus.” 

“Then we shall free him. Proceed.” The Dominus - the word scratches familiar at the edges of Clarke’s mind - waves his hand and the whip-bearer has only to look to the gladiators for two of them to stride forward and grab the unconscious slave by his arms. 

While attention is focused elsewhere, Clarke and Octavia manage to exchange a wondering look, before they follow the gladiators’ movements with their eyes. 

The courtyard is bordered on three sides by buildings, the fourth side falling into a deep ravine and far below the city they have traversed is a hazy collection of buildings that shimmer impossibly white in the blinding sun.

Clarke’s heart begins to beat in time with the gladiators’ footsteps, and she can’t tear her eyes away from the grooves the slave’s limbs leave on the sand. She knows that the freedom her new owner grants so readily is one of the spirit - not the body - and wonders if in the days to come she’ll end up envying the man’s fate.  

It takes a moment more for Octavia to catch up and when Clarke hears the soft clink of her friend’s chains she has to dig her fingernails into the palm of her hands to keep herself from reaching out. Thankfully after that Octavia is still.

And quiet.

The gladiators drag the man to the edge of the ravine, then change the way they hold him so that he dangles between them, grasped at hands and feet. 

They look to the whip carrier and when he nods, they swing the man back once, like a sack of stones except he’s made of meat and blood and bones. 

They release him at the height of the forward arc and for one glorious moment it looks to Clarke like he soars through the air. Then the inevitable descent starts and he disappears from view, falling to smash to the ground several feet below. 

If he screams he’s too far down for them to hear, and the wind doesn’t carry. 

A look passes between the Dominus and the man with the whip and unspoken words fill the air between them, before the slave owner retreats into the shade of his house The woman lingers a moment longer, straight-backed and austere - frigid - and the heat that makes her skin shimmer with sweat may as well be nothing.. 

Clarke has the impression that the woman’s eyes stay on her and Octavia the longest, and she feels a heat in her gaze she doesn’t understand. It’s almost like the woman has singled them out as enemies and Clarke’s mouth sours at the prospect. Whatever she is to the Dominus - lover or wife - she obviously holds some sort of sway over him, to be by his side so intimately. 

And in a world where death is common currency a displeased word in the Dominus’ ear may be enough to send them flying over the edge of the courtyard. 

Clarke is distracted from her gloomy thoughts by the scuffling of feet along the line. The whip bearer paces back and forth in front of them, the whip trailing every step. He coils it up into his fist and halts in front of the slave at the end of the line - Clarke admires the man for staring back seemingly unaffected. 

There’s a long, tense moment in which the silence stretches to the point of breaking, then the whip bearer taps the man’s chest with the whip’s handle. 

“Training.” Clarke thinks it’s perversely funny - and kind of sickening - how one word can change a person’s life forever. 

The man - obviously a trainer - continues down the line, and touches each slave sentencing their fate without hesitation. 

“Mines.” He snaps at the man next to Clarke’s, and the slave’s shoulders slump but he makes no sound as he is dragged inside a building by two guards. 

The whip’s handle raps her chest and Clarke has to resist the urge to draw away. Instead she squares her shoulders and forces herself to meet his dark, searching gaze. It seems to linger on her face forever, but it’s only the space of a breath and then he pulls away. 

It takes a moment more for Clarke to register the word. 

Training.

She is flooded with relief - knowing she’s been granted but a temporary  extension on her life - but Clarke will take it. She is too stubborn to give up, and Raven needs her and Octavia both.

When the trainer moves to Octavia, Clarke holds her breath. Her heart thumps almost painfully against her ribs, and the shaky breath she tries to take to calm herself makes no difference. 

“Training.” 

A small sound falls from Octavia’s lips, a breath held so long that it whistles between her teeth when it’s released. 

The trainer repeats the action with every slave, and two more are sent to the mines, the rest joining Clarke and Octavia as recruits. 

Once that’s done with, he plants himself in front of them, feet spaced apart and whip held taut between his fists. 

As she looks at him, Clarke has no doubt he won’t hesitate to use it at the slightest provocation - or maybe just to make a point.

“I am Doctore,” his voice is a growl and his English slightly accented, some words possessing  a different lilt than what Clarke is used to. “And you are nothing.” 

He spits on the ground with disgust before continuing.

“None of you stray dogs would survive a moment in the Arena.” he pauses and points the coiled whip at Clarke and Octavia, “except these two. Look at them, small, insignificant, afraid. And yet they survived the jaws of Janus almost untouched where countless others perished.” He resumes walking, “gaze upon them, study them, and realize they are nothing. Their victory as hollow as their courage, for they fought a mindless beast.”

Some of the gladiators snicker.

“Had they crossed paths with any of the Gladiators here, their bodies would be food for crows and their bones would bleach under the sun!”

 

Octavia shifts and growls under her breath - Clarke doesn’t look but she’s sure her eyes glint with that challenging light she gets when she argues with Bellamy. She hopes the small gesture of defiance will go unnoticed by Doctore, but her fervent wish is quashed when his eyes narrow. 

 

“This one disagrees. Perhaps a demonstration is in order.” 

He glances back towards the assembled warriors and his voice cracks above everyone’s heads. 

“Tris. Practice blades!” 

A girl squeezes through the crowd - Clarke judges her to be a handful of years younger than she is - and rushes to obey. She sprints across the yard to where weapon racks are placed and grabs two swords. 

When she comes to a stop next to Doctore and hands them over, Clarke realizes the blades are metal, dented in places by hard use. The edges are blunt, but they look heavy enough to split a head open if enough force is put behind the blow. 

“Lexa!” 

Clarke’s ghost up close is very real, entirely menacing. She accepts one of the swords from Doctore and he tosses the other at Octavia’s feet. But Clarke isn’t watching her friend, she can’t - her eyes are trapped inside an emerald prison she doesn’t know how to escape.

She isn’t sure she wants to - something lurks amid the jade and it calls to her.

The gladiator’s expression is neutral as she twirls the sword lazily, body relaxed as she waits for Doctore’s command. The way she holds herself could almost pass as boredom, except Clarke knows her gaze is so sharp it could cut her. 

If the warrior deigned to look at her - that is - and Clarke  is a tiny bit offended that Lexa’s attention is all for Octavia right now.

“Pick the sword up.” Doctore orders and Clarke snaps out of her green tinted haze to realize that her friend hasn’t moved. Judging from the trainer’s thunderous face, he’s repeated the order more than once already. 

“No.” 

Octavia’s whisper carries incredibly well around the courtyard and the gladiators stir, their surprised murmurs fill the air. 

Clarke watches Lexa stare down Octavia, and the gladiator steps forward, her foot kicks out and the blade bumps hilt first against Octavia’s foot.

“Take the sword.” 

Her voice is… younger than Clarke expected. She  _ is _ young -Clarke realizes - having a few years on them at most, but the faint scars on her bare arms, and the ones Clarke knows are there even if she cannot see them make Lexa look older. 

Or maybe it’s the aura of power she so effortlessly exudes. 

Octavia shakes her head in denial, goes as far as to take a step back, and Lexa turns to Doctore clearly at a loss on what to do. 

“Bash her skull in,” he looks disappointed, but perhaps he’s only annoyed he’s wasting time. “Dominus has no use for a gladiator that will not fight, and she is too slim for the mines, not pliant enough for a whorehouse.” 

Everything happens all at once after his words - the sword glints dully as the blade catches the sun and then Clarke moves,  _ is moving, _ with no clear idea of where she’s going. 

But her body knows, and it places her in the weapon’s descending trajectory. Clarke hears Octavia scream, Doctore curse and she shuts her eyes while raising her arms. 

The sword will break a bone if Clarke is lucky, crack against her temple if she misjudged, but at the sound of metal rebounding off metal her eyes fly open. 

The blade has struck neatly between her chain bound wrists, sparks igniting in the air. Clarke feels the blow like a tremor that starts at the crown of her head and splits downward like thunder. Her teeth ache from it, and she is sure her face is the epitome of surprise, if Lexa’s own is any indication. 

They remain locked, as still as a frieze carved on stone, until Dominus’ voice calls from above. 

“Doctore!” Clarke’s eyes flick upwards and she realizes with a sinking feeling that the slaver has witnessed everything from the shade. She already feels her body fly over the edge of the ravine. 

Dominus gestures, ring-adorned fingers holding a delicate cup and Doctore barks something Clarke is too afraid to understand - but the important thing is that the sword is withdrawn and she can lower her trembling arms. Lexa is looking at her now, with the frown of someone confronted with a puzzle they can make no heads or tails of. 

“Get the recruits out of those irons, “ Doctore orders curtly and guards scramble to obey, “then they can run ten laps of the yard and learn about obedience.” 

A guard seizes Clarke by the arm, fingers digging cruelly into the flesh of her forearm. 

“Not her,” the trainer adds, “she is summoned.” 


End file.
